The sum of our choices
by Alecto Perdita
Summary: Their relationship has always advanced in fits and starts. Sputtering like super-heated plasma, but otherwise as glacial as an ice age. Maybe this time it'll be different. It has to be. It has to. After weeks of silence, Chloe storms Lucifer's tower in search of answers. [Part 2 of "Faith is half the battle", post-season 3 AU]
1. This mended heart is meant for so much m

Chapter 1/7  
_This mended heart is meant for so much more_

Chloe stirs. Sleep clumped her eyelashes but warm sunlight caresses her face and a faint breeze tickles the sole of her bare feet. Humming, she sinks deeper into the fluffiness cradling her, luxuriating in the silkiness sliding over her bare arms.

She's floating on clouds. No. a bed of clouds.

She giggles as the memory of Heavenly Pudding's commercial shoot comes to mind. All those scantily clad "angels" lounging on a set of fake clouds.

Angel.

Lucifer.

She rockets into full wakefulness and jackknifes up on the mattress. Her eyes rove over the armchair in the corner, the strange brass statute seated next to it like some demented guard-dog, the low black minimalist bureau, and the childish watercolor painting of mermaid clowns hanging on the antique Assyrian wall. She's fully dressed and utterly alone.

Shoving aside the sheets with a ridiculous thread-count, she throws herself out of the California king. The rush of going from drowsy to panicked almost makes her sick. Air rushes into her lungs in large, starved gulps as she rifles through her memories for an explanation.

She and Lucifer had been nestled in the folds of his couch. They were talking. She'd missed his voice so much in their short time apart. His warmth and his soft-spoken tone lulls her, and Chloe's been running on nothing but caffeine and willpower for days and weeks...

She stumbles down the dark Italian marble steps—one, two, then three—into the living area. The sofa where they last sat is empty save for his suit jacket draped across the back. The crystal ashtray atop the baby grand cradles a lone cigarette, now long extinguished. The piano's cover is pulled shut over the ivory keys. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the sun hangs high in the sky, mid-afternoon she reckons with a sinking heart.

"Detective?"

The question comes from behind. She spins on her heels, loose hair whipping at her neck. Her heart skips a beat at the sight of him. He sits cross-legged on the floor with her Luci-board propped against the bar counter. Two decanters, one empty and the other half-full of amber liquor, rest next to his knee.

"I..." She swallows the lump lodged in her throat. "I woke up, and you weren't there."

She flushes, regretting the admission as soon as it leaves her mouth. It's childish, pathetic, and so not her. But she can't brush off the dread or the vision of furniture shrouded under drop cloths. She can almost taste the stale air trapped in the mausoleum of her memory.

"You could barely keep your eyes open. I thought it best to allow you to rest. I promise not to go anywhere until your curiosity is satisfied." Some small and huddled emotion flashes across his face, but he shrugs it off with a casual shoulder roll.

Chloe pads across the icy floor and plops down next to him. She tucks her bare feet under her thighs for warmth as the AC kicks in overhead. Up close, she sees that Lucifer has reassembled her board of clues. While she slept, he'd gathered the pieces that had fallen off and fixed them back where they belong. There's not a clue out of place, each rectangular piece arranged into a geometrically perfect grid.

"You tidied up," she notes dumbly.

"Yes, but I decided not to mess with your organization system as it were." His tone makes it clear there's ample room for improvement.

She can't fight the upward tilt of her lips, lost in the memory of what he considers a "filing system": sexy victim category and all.

He offers her his glass of alcohol, and she refuses with a gentle shake of her head. Chloe is decidedly not a day drinker, even given the current situation. She used to think Lucifer the world's most practiced "functional alcoholic." But she now realizes she's never seen him tipsy. It's something she'll chalk up to his extra-human nature along with his super strength. Lucifer has very nice, toned forearms; a notion reinforced for her every time he rolls his sleeves up as he's done now. He doesn't have the musculature that suggests he can throw grown men through glass plate windows with a flick of his wrist as he does.

Lucifer doesn't lie, but everything about him at first glance is deceptive as hell.

He gestures lazily at her board, deliciously exposed forearm and all. "You've been quite the busy bee, haven't you? You're very thorough. Though it's a tad too A Beautiful Mind for my taste."

A spark of annoyance flares to life. "Yeah, well, you didn't leave me much of a choice. You went AWOL on me."

He throws back the rest of his drink instead of responding and quickly pours another. He fixes his gaze on the swirls in the marble. "Apologies, Detective, I didn't think you'd want to see me after... after that."

That wounded thing twisted through Lucifer's features again. It's shame, she realizes at last. Lucifer, who has no compunctions about sex, drugs, or nudity, feels shame because of her.

She intercepts his hand bringing the glass back to his lips. With sure fingers, she peels it away and sets it on the ground. Raising onto her knees, she shuffles closer and frames his face with both hands. He swallows. His Adam's apple bobs reflexively. The quiet shame is still heavy in his brown eyes, but he looks at her with wonder and tenderness she can't deny.

"I missed you, you know," she begins almost conversationally.

His eyes widen a fraction. In some other situation, it might be comical. Here, it's heartbreaking.

"I listened to that voicemail a dozen times a day," she says with heat rising in her cheeks, but she pushes past her self-consciousness. "I fell asleep listening to your words on repeat more times than I can count. I couldn't help but wonder what would have changed if I knew the truth sooner. I know one thing though, Lucifer. I am better off knowing. I am better off believing you."

"You can't honestly say that," he protests.

"I can." That truth sits in the very bedrock of her being, newly exposed under the wall once erected between them. That wall's finally crumbled. She's been unknowingly chipping away at it for so long. She's so relieved she can cry.

"Chloe..."

She leans in, pausing a hair's breadth away to give him a reprieve or an escape route. He takes neither. His breath stutters and he freezes, but he doesn't pull or push her away. When she presses her lips to his, she's floored by his familiarity. From the scratch of his stubble against her palms to the curve of his cupid's bow to the arch of his Roman nose, he is a homecoming.

For as long as they can remember, the worst luck plagues them without fail. So Chloe waits with bated breath for the other shoe to drop. For the elevator to ping. For some interloper to waltz in. For the fucking world to end.

Maybe Lucifer fears the same.

Until he doesn't.

She doesn't.

A desperate sound claws free from his throat before he brackets her hips with two large hands and drags her into his lap. He goes from stone-cold statue to fire and passion in an instant. She trails one hand from his cheek, over the shell of his ears, and into his hair. He shudders and draws her impossibly closer. His iron grip is a brand against her skin, burning the words "mine mine mine" into her hipbone. _Yes yes yes_, her heart replies in staccato beats. When he sweeps his tongue past the seams of her lips, she forgets where she ends and he begins.

Her lips ache but she doesn't care. Not when he's breathing new life into her and intoxicating her with the whiskey lingering on his tongue. Walking heroin. Yeah, if this is what it's like to kiss Lucifer Morningstar, she can see how apt a comparison that was.

He trails a series of kisses over the corner of her mouth, down her jaw, and along the column of her neck. She sighs, leaning into the sensation of stubble burn soothed by his sinful lips. She almost expects him to suckle and leave marks. But he offers nothing more than the swipe of his tongue against her pulse.

"Lucifer," she murmurs, dazed and strung out. It may have been a question? Or even a prayer?

She rolls her head back to give him better access, and he responds with a quiet, appreciative noise. But the movement almost throws her off balance. He circles one arm around her waist to slide her completely onto his lap, bringing her into contact with his very large and hard interest in her.

"Shit." She tugs on his hair, causing him to jerk and rub against her.

He drops her face to her shoulder, trembling with every heaving breath. She untangles her fingers from his curls, bringing them to the nap of his neck.

"Too much?" she asks even though she already knows the answer. It's the way his shoulders shiver ever so slightly as he tries to hold his body still. It's how he clings to her shirt like it's a life raft.

He laughs a small and wet sound. But at least it's not hollow. At least it's not full of more self-loathing than usual. "Only you, darling, only you can make the Devil feel too much."

-x-x-x-

After staying wrapped around each other for a long while, Chloe's stomach reminds her she had skipped breakfast. She wants to die from embarrassment at the way it gurgles. Lucifer laughs, genuine in its timbre. He offers to make something, pointing out it's well past lunchtime. And if she sneaks a furtive glance at his crotch when he stands and adjusts his trousers, who can blame her?

She licks her swollen and chapped lips. Note to self: get some chapstick before kissing Lucifer again.

Lucifer has a kitchen. After two years of partnership, she finally learns he has an honest-to-God kitchen. It's sleek and modern, equipped with enough gadgets and amenities to put the set of Top Chef to shame. The layout is open like the rest of the penthouse with no doors in sight. Chloe sits at his island counter, watching Lucifer pull ingredients from the fridge and pantry.

"Here I thought you lived on smokes and scotch," she teases. Her fingers dart across the granite countertop and steal a cherry tomato from the packet he'd set out.

He winks. "Gluttony may not be as fun as lust, but it's a sin none the less."

She groans, "Oh... Jeez, you're going to lean into the Devil puns even harder, aren't you?"

The twinkle in his eye is all the answer she needs. He might be an immortal being as old as time, but he was also one of the most immature people she's ever met. She sits back and watches him work for a while.

"I can answer questions now if you wish." His fiddling with the panini press controls for longer than necessary belies any confidence he pretends to have.

She props her elbows on the counter and rests her chin in her hand. She mentally reviews her board, trying to locate the major gaps in her understanding. Frowning, she admits, "I don't know what I don't know. You saw the board. What am I missing?"

He assembles the first sandwich and sets it on the press before responding, "As I said, your thoroughness always impresses me, Detective. There are two main points you should be made aware of as they pertain directly to you."

He has yet to turn to face her. He throws himself into prepping a salad instead.

She can't deny she's nervous, but Lucifer is overdramatic at the best of times. "Okay, hit me."

His knife pauses halfway through slicing a cucumber. "You're a miracle."

"Uh, thanks?" She furrows her eyebrow in confusion.

He sighs, shoulders drooping, and turns to reveal his grim expression. He looks like an oncologist delivering a fatal prognosis. "You, Chloe Jane Decker, are a literal miracle."

"So you've said, but I still don't get it."

"Haven't you read the Bible? You are a miracle because divine intervention put you on this earth." His frustration bleeds through, clipping each word short.

Chloe's mind sputters like a dying engine. Bible. Miracle. Immaculate conception. A baby in a manger because the inn was full.

"Like Jesus?" she chokes out the word. "Wait, does that mean God is my dad? Are we siblings?"

Lucifer recoils in horror. "What? No! We're not bloody related. What gave you that insane idea?"

Chloe points an accusatory finger at him. "You! You're the one talking about the Bible!"

"No! Amenadiel blessed your mum with the ability to conceive. Without his help, your parents would never have never had you."

She folds her arms across the granite and buries her head in them. She slowly counts backward from ten, lest she's tempted to reach across the counter and wring his stupid, attractive neck.

"Detective, have I upset you?"

She lifts her head and glares. "You suck at this breaking news thing. Next time, Maze gets to do it."

"So you're not upset?" The strain of hope makes his words thready and fragile.

She runs a hand through her hair, now hopelessly tangled. "So my parents are still my parents?"

He nods.

"And I'm still human? Not part angel or demon or whatever?"

He nods again.

"Okay, what does it mean then?" she asks, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. She won't lie. It's vaguely unsettling news, but is she supposed to prefer not existing?

"I suppose it's what makes you immune to my powers. You've been immune since the start. But other than that, I... I don't know," Lucifer finally replies.

Her eyebrows creep up toward her hairline. "You don't know," she repeats flatly.

He's two seconds away from wringing his hands, which Lucifer Morningstar never does. "I thought I knew before. I figured it was another of Father's attempt to manipulate me. Maybe you were another one of his plans. But now? I'm not sure."

She narrows her eyes, studying him and the way he angles away from her. "But it bothers you still?"

He shoots her an incredulous look. "Yes, as it should you!"

"Lucifer, I don't know what you want me to say. But if the alternative is never being born, not having Trixie..." she trailed off while meeting his eyes, and he stiffens in that same way a rabbit does before it makes eye contact with a predator. "Not being here, I won't look a gift horse in the mouth."

A bone-rattling clatter echoes through the kitchen when he flings his knife down. She opens her mouth to scold him for his carelessness around sharp objects and for probably scratching his expensive countertops.

He bears down at her from the other side of the island, using his impressive height to bring them nearly face-to-face. The darkness hooding his eyes is taller and deeper than the shadow he cast under the kitchen's floodlighting. He doesn't need his so-called Devil face to terrify suspects. Not a drop of fear wells in her though, because she can see the desperation tearing his seams apart.

"Detective, I will not allow you to be a pawn in my Father's games. I will not allow him to use you," insists Lucifer.

Her lips thin. They had managed less than an hour of conversation before Lucifer's massive daddy issues reared its ugly head. "Okay, what are we going to do about it then?"

Chloe has always been a solutions-oriented gal. You present her with a problem, and she'll formulate a plan to address it. Persistence and patience win her the war, even when an individual battle wears her thin and battered. It's why detective work appeals to her. But the same question sucks the wind right out of his sails. Lucifer has never been good at tackling issues he can't overcome through a liberal application of his charisma and his sheer force of will. Early on, she wrote it off as a privilege he enjoyed as a rich, eccentric, and handsome man armed with a British accent. She's not necessarily wrong, but it's also not the whole picture.

His shoulders sag under an unseen weight. He digs his hands into the counter, squeezing fingertip-sized indentations into the surface as if it's clay. "I've already tried every bloody thing I could think of. Nothing changed. The answer isn't any clearer now than it was last March."

A bone-chilling iciness seizes Chloe. Last March: a period of her life she had turned over and over in her head while putting together her board. In terms of cases, they had put an end to Professor Carlisle's serial murders. In her personal life, she had kissed Lucifer for the first time right before that. Then she fell prey to Carlise's dying gambit and nearly died.

Before, she'd always assumed that their growing emotional intimacy sent Lucifer running. As of last week, she wondered if her near brush with death forced him to consider the follies of a relationship with a mortal. Turns out it's neither. His reasoning is a hundred-times worse and a thousand-times more self-absorbed.

"You ass. Was that what Candy was about?" she growls.

He freezes, realizing his mistake too late, and casts a terrified look at her. Some part of her registers how uncanny it is for a creature of his power to fear her, but she shoves it to the back of her mind. Pushing the stool with an ear-ringing scrape, she rounds the breakfast bar with purpose.

He skittles swiftly, trying to maintain some distance between them. But she won't allow him the luxury of either physical or emotional distance. Not when he so rarely reciprocates the courtesy. She crowds him toward a corner, doubles back to turn off the press so it doesn't start a fire, and doesn't stop until he's backed up against the counter with no escape. Unless he wants to climb onto the counter. She won't put it past him.

She grabs fistfuls of his waistcoat to hold him in place. The fact he has the literal strength of several grown men combined doesn't figure into the equation. "Was this why you dumped me for a stripper?"

"You weren't dumped. We weren't a couple," he reminds her with a touch of hysteria.

"Semantics, Lucifer!"

He starts to protest again, but she quells him with another glower. "You ran off and married a Vegas stripper after I almost died because you thought God was manipulating you through me."

"It made sense at the time." He looks everywhere but at her.

It pains her to admit it, but she can see his side of things. Chloe is only human. Even if she hadn't been an atheist, God's plan would always be something unknowable. Yet to Lucifer, God's plan is not some vague platitude. Lucifer has played an active role in said plan.

But Jesus, he hurt her. He hurt her so bad by not explaining things to her. By not helping her understand why. Linda once said there was no expiration date on healing. Now Chloe can see that this particular wound isn't as scabbed over as she'd thought.

It's raw and festering, with metaphoric pus oozing to the surface.

She blinks rapidly, determined to fight back the wetness stinging her eyes. "I thought there was something wrong with me! I wondered what it was about me that drove away all the people I care about! First, my marriage failed. And then you! I thought you cared and then you didn't anymore. Was I the idiot? Am I the stupid one throwing myself at people who don't want me? Who couldn't care less about me?"

"Detective, no, no, no. I do care. I care so bloody much it scares me."

He's so sincere and fucking oblivious all at once. God, the way he looks at her now. Like she's his judge, jury, and executioner; all despite him being the actual (former) king of Hell.

"There's nothing more important to me than your life. Than your happiness," he insists breathlessly.

He lays his hands over her white-knuckled fists. She can't shake the imagery of a pledge—of gauntlet fists thumping over armored hearts. His words are more than a promise. It's gone beyond the hypothetical for months even if she didn't know it then. Because she's still alive, and Trixie still has a mother because of everything he's done.

He's already died for her once.

"Maze said you went to Hell for my antidote," she sniffles.

Maze had recounted the story with her usual nonchalance like Lucifer had taken a trip to the corner store and not flung himself into the abyss of Hell. It resolved one of the biggest questions plaguing Chloe even before she found out the truth. For a second, she almost preferred the bliss of ignorance. Then she snatched the vodka from Maze and took a deep, fortifying gulp. She would run from the truth no longer.

"I would do it again in a heartbeat," he swears.

Her heart cracks anew. "You still left afterward without saying anything."

Does he not realize how cruel he was? To save her life only to discard her afterward?

"You needed to be free to make your own choices. I thought I could give it back to you by leaving. Forgive me, Detective, but I am selfish beyond compare. I couldn't stay away. So I came back. I'll always come back to you." He squeezes her hand, willing her to understand.

She presses her snotty nose into his expensive Italian wool. If he dares complain, she'll kick him in his sizeable balls. Instead, he bends his face into her bird's nest wreck of hair and breathes like she's oxygen itself. She returns the embrace, clinging to him as a lifeline in this brave new world borne out of the ruins of mistakes past.


	2. Cards on the table, we're both showing h

Chapter 2/7  
_Cards on the table, we're both showing hearts_

After she wrangles her composure back under control, Lucifer finishes cooking and serves a long overdue lunch: Caprese panini with added prosciutto slices and a salad on the side. He sets aside the first sandwich, now slightly burnt and long grown cold, for himself. The one he prepares for her is grilled to perfection.

Chloe polishes off her plate in minutes. Damn him for being such a good cook. Between missing breakfast and the not-quite-crying-thank-you-very-much, she's famished. The way she inhales the food could put Trixie and Maze combined to shame. But Lucifer, with his neatly folded napkin and perfect posture, regards her appalling lack of table manners as nothing short of a compliment.

Tossing her napkin down, she steels herself for the next topic. "So what's the second thing? You said there were two things I didn't know based on the board."

He spears a cherry tomato with his fork and slides it through the vinaigrette. He peers at her from under his long eyelashes, judging and assessing. He hasn't made a peep since they started eating.

"Just tell me," she nearly begs. "It can't be worse than the first thing. Can it?"

"I suppose you're right, Detective." He puts down his utensil and pushes the half-finished plate away. Then with a world-weary sigh, he bends toward her. Having learned from previous experience, he doesn't stop. He doesn't give her pause to question him. "Around you, I become vulnerable, and I mean that in the literal exsanguinating sense. When you're not around, I am functionally immortal in every sense of the word. Save for hell- or celestial-forged weapons, nothing of this earth can harm me. Be it guns, knives, or poison gas. In your proximity, I lose that invulnerability. I can die."

But as usual, he course-corrects too much and overshoots any reasonable expectation by leagues. The silence that settles over them is as devastating as a nuclear winter, leaving Chloe frigid and shaken. Maze had explained Marcus's curse and his immortality: he died but always came back. And she, stupid stupid Chloe, assumed Lucifer operated by the same rules.

"Because I'm a miracle?" she asks with dread welling in the pit of her stomach.

God, he really died when Malcolm shot him. Lucifer died because she, Chloe Decker, had been nearby. Was that why she was put on this earth? To hurt Lucifer?

She really wishes she hadn't bothered with lunch. She's this close to making a run for the bathroom, or better yet, his kitchen sink.

"Detective, calm down." He makes an abortive gesture toward her before reining himself in. "You'll make yourself sick."

How can he be so damn calm? Granted, she's never approved of his recklessness or his risk-seeking behavior even when she thought him human. The amount of danger he's exposed to doesn't change. Not technically. Not mathematically. The probabilities remain the same. Yet the knowledge shakes her to the core.

She shoots him an incredulous look. "Lucifer, this is a big deal. Like a really, really big deal. I am literally hazardous to you. All those times you got hurt on cases, I did that to you!"

"None of that, Detective," he commands. "You're not to blame. The ones who did the hurting are the responsible parties. I did suspect you were the cause in the beginning. You were already immune to my abilities to draw out desires. But recent events have shown me that may not be the case. It's not you that strictly makes me vulnerable, but rather, I make myself vulnerable in response to you."

"That's dumb. Why would you do that?" She can't stop the words before they leave her mouth. Hell, even her previous God-put-her-here-to-harm-Lucifer theory is more credible. She hates the idea, but at least it makes sense.

Lucifer huffs with exasperation, causing the corners of his eyes to crinkle. "Yes, well, it's not like I consciously choose for it to happen. It's bloody inconvenient. You get within a city block and I can stub my toe like any bloke."

"Explain," she demands. "You say it's not my fault. But how can you be sure?"

He folds his hands together, gliding one finger back and forth across his ring. The flare of light in the dark stone catches her by surprise, but he doesn't notice. Another weird Lucifer thing to add to her ever-growing list. She can spend the rest of her natural life interrogating him about the unknowns.

"You humans ultimately decide where you go after death, based on your own conscience and guilt." He speaks with all the authority of someone declaring the sky is blue. He treats it as something self-evident. And for Lucifer, it must be.

She blinks slowly. Okay, that was a lot to throw at her at once, and it's not the direction she'd expected him to go. She thinks that maybe he's told her something similar in the past. Lucifer has no power over human sins, so it stands that he has no authority over their final destination either. He does so pride himself on never lying.

He continues, oblivious to her minor existential crisis. "Amenadiel had this theory we celestials may not be so different from humans. He insists that we judge ourselves as you humans do. But unlike you lot, we don't have some ultimate reward or punishment waiting for us on the celestial planes. The Silver City and Hell are always within reach for angels. Well, except for me. I'm banned from Heaven. So when we judge ourselves, we can affect our very nature."

She nods, prompting him to go on. She can only accept what he's saying at face value. She doesn't understand enough to argue otherwise for now.

He inhaled a sharp breath, and his lips thin in a severe line. "Take my brother as an example. He raises a soul from Hell to do his dirty work. Malcolm runs rampant and murders innocent people. You..." He jabs an elegant finger at her. "Nearly died. Your spawn could have been hurt or worse. I think we can both agree that was decidedly not angelic behavior on his part."

"Amenadiel had wanted me back in Hell, consequences be damned. But then, he took responsibility for his actions. So much more than any of us realized because he loses his bloody wings and powers. He thought Father had deemed him unworthy when he judged himself first. While he lost his wings, I got mine back. No matter how many times I cut them off, they kept coming back. Well, I suppose preventing my mother from waging war on Heaven was the polar opposite of what Amenadiel did... But what finally convinced me was Pierce," he says sharply. Even now, he spits out the name like it's poison.

"I'm sorry, Lucifer. How does any of this explain why you're vulnerable around me?"

"I'm getting to that part, Detective. Cain was also under the impression you're the direct cause of my vulnerability. And he hoped you could do the same for him, allowing him to circumvent Dad's curse. First, he tried dying near you, but that didn't stick. Then he got it into his head it was your... that your love was the reason I bleed..." he trails off, his throat convulsing and his gaze dipping to his folded hands.

Laughter bubbles inside her, but nothing he says is remotely funny. Then a wildfire rage, the likes of which she's never known before, sweeps through her. Pierce used her. Even before they'd embarked on a romantic relationship, he was angling for something from Chloe. Maze's previous explanation of her own deal with Marcus combined with what Lucifer just told her paints a stark picture of a callous, manipulative man with no regard for anyone other than himself.

"Detective?" Lucifer's low whisper pierces through her red haze.

"That asshole," she hissed, her anger causing a startled look to flit across Lucifer's face. "That's why he went with me to Firehawk Ranch."

"Ah, yes, Pierce alerted Jerry Blackcrow and told him you two were coming. Gives new meaning to 'suicide by cop', doesn't it?" His usual humor falls flat as a landed fish.

She remembers Marcus playing with his phone, moments before Blackcrow charged out with a shotgun. That had been Chloe's feelings changed toward Marcus. Nightingale Syndrome, she realizes numbly. Marcus won her over by putting his life on the line for her sake. In her line of work, being willing to take a bullet for someone is the ultimate expression of loyalty and bravery. Maybe... Just maybe there was more under Marcus's aloof and condescending shell. No, that had all been in her head. He wanted to die and didn't care if he endangered her physically or emotionally to achieve his goal.

She was an instrument. A tool. A means to a fucking end.

All too easily, she can see how her professional and probably personal life could have imploded if he'd succeeded. Chloe would have never known she was an accomplice to assisted suicide. She would have spent the rest of her life feeling guilty for getting her superior officer killed. She would blame herself for being careless. She would blame herself for not being good enough.

Good riddance to Marcus Pierce, the world's first murderer, and biggest gaping asshole.

"Detective, as much as I enjoy you verbally eviscerating Cain, are you all right?" Concern always transforms Lucifer's sharp lines into something familiar and comforting.

"Did I say that out loud?"

He nods with the specter of a twinkle in his soft eyes.

"Well, I stand by it. World's. Biggest. Gaping. Asshole," she growls.

"I'm sure that's someone's torture in Hell," he snorts.

He falls quiet after that, perhaps recognizing how much Chloe's struggling with the extent of Marcus's betrayal. She hadn't hated Marcus when she shot him at the loft. He was a danger to society and the people she loves. He needed to be stopped. The snarling beast of her rage now wishes she had finished him.

She sucks in a breath. "Okay, so I'm not some kind of supernatural kryptonite. Good to know. How did he break his curse then? He is dead, right?"

"Oh yes, decidedly so," Lucifer confirms with a feral twist of his lips that soothes the hot knot of hatred in her own belly. But it slips away as quickly as it appears, replaced by an expression Chloe's seen countless times. When she first reached for those two gruesome scars carved between his shoulder blades. Or last Halloween when he threw himself in front of that sniper. She wondered if he wore the same expression when he left her that voicemail.

"Then how?"

"Cain broke my Father's curse when he... well, simply put, I suppose when he fell in love with you."

Her mouth dries, and she can't force words past the cold lump lodged in her throat. Love? A few weeks ago, she wanted nothing more than the love and stability of a good man. A decent man. Now? She knows better. Marcus Pierce is anything but a good man. He used her. He threatened Maze. He killed Charlotte. He wanted to kill Lucifer. Everything he'd put her through cannot come from a place of love.

"Psychopaths don't love, Lucifer." Her head spins.

He squirms in his seat, as discomforted by this line of conversation as she is. "Yes, the point is he became... attached. When faced with the choice between hurting you further and achieving his goal, he chose you. He chose to sacrifice for once in his miserable life. He lost his Mark by heeding his better angels. Then I killed him, and my Devil face returned. How's that for irony?"

Lucifer hides his face behind his hands, laughing hollowly. The harsh sound, bordering on hysteria, shakes her out of her stupor. They've come full circle to where they started, but Chloe finally understands the full implications of what he's told her.

She hops off the counter stool and slides into Lucifer's space. The movement catches him by surprise, and his hands drop limply into his lap to reveal his wild, haunted eyes. With him seated, she doesn't have to crane her head to maintain eye contact.

He doesn't try to evade her. She thinks he's too tired to try.

He's given her the final pieces of the puzzle, and she's a damn good Detective. Celestials like Lucifer can punish and reward themselves based on what they believed they deserved. It's self-determination in its purest form.

"You're physically vulnerable because you feel emotionally vulnerable around me," she says, voice holding steady despite her somersaulting stomach.

She can see her board in her mind's eye. In the top left corner, their first case together solving Delilah's murder. CSI had recovered 9 bullet casings from the recording studio, one of which ripped through her shoulder, another shattered a glass sculpture, and the rest? Recovered as crushed slugs in a breadcrumb trail from a pool of her dried blood to where Jimmy Barnes laid injured.

"But you didn't start out that way." She plants one hand on his cheek. He stills, but she can see the muscles in his neck straining not to lean into the contact. "Not until the Carver case. Not until I shot you."

He swallows visibly, eyelids fluttering shut before nodding weakly.

That had been their fourth case together. They had known each other for less than two months, and he already felt enough to be wounded by man-made weapons. She longs desperately for the cool metal of the bullet necklace safely stowed away in her nightstand drawer. She should be wearing it. She should have never taken it off.

"Why?" Her heart hammers against her rib-cage, faster than a hummingbird's fluttering wingbeat. "Why did you keep coming back? Why work with me at all? If you stayed away, you would've been safe."

When he opens his eyes, something in him gives way. Another brick loosens and crumbles between them. He turns his head, not quite kissing her palm but his warm breath tickles her skin. "At first, I didn't know it was you. By the time I figured it out, I didn't want to stay away."

A dam inside Chloe bursts and hot tears flow down her cheeks freely. She's been searching for any hint of Lucifer's feelings for the longest time. She's turned over rock after rock through their partnership, wondering if he cared enough to see her as a friend. As something more. She'd resigned herself to never knowing the truth. She'd forced herself to accept that she would never understand him. She decommissioned her heart and stowed it away in a hiding place Pierce could only guess at.

You did choose me, he said on Forest Clay's balcony before the shit hit the fan. That was almost four weeks ago.

Why did it take him so long to realize that? Time and time again, Chloe chose Lucifer. She keeps choosing him as a partner. As a friend. As everything in between and more.

But never in a thousand years did she imagine he'd feel the same. Never did she dare to think he'd present her with proof, especially evidence this damning in its simplicity. He may be willing to die for her. He's been to Hell and back for her. But nothing will ever top this unconscious admission to the depth of his feelings.

"Detective?" He winds his voice high with distress and confusion.

She leans her forehead against his, barely seeing through the wet droplets clinging to her eyelashes. "Don't you see? We chose each other."

She wills her words to sink into his thick skull. She needs him to understand. She lowers her guard for him, knowing he could destroy her from the inside out. He offers his metaphorical heart, however ancient and atrophied it may be, and bleeds as a price. These are their choices manifested, mutual and freely given.

"Oh..." He speaks in the way when children have learned something momentous, full of awe and no small amount of incredulity.

She weeps for them both.

-x-x-x-

They spend a long while afterward treading eggshells. Chloe can leave, but she won't. The threat that Lucifer might vanish as soon as she takes her eyes off him is too great. She can't take that chance now they're talking, even if only in fits and starts. But Lucifer treats her like a feral cat, keeping her at arm's length lest she bites and gives him rabies or something.

By the time evening sets in, they've done a full circuit of the penthouse: from the kitchen to the balcony to the library and back to the living room. By unspoken agreement, they steer clear of certain topics between them, about them. It's easy when Lucifer is a treasure trove of stories. This isn't the first time he's come "topside" as he terms it. Lucifer's visited humanity many, many times over the course of its history.

She misses her Lucifer though. Her unflappable partner who uses humor to soften the blow at crime scenes and the larger-than-life personality that draws her out of her own turtle shell. This subdued creature may tell extraordinary stories, but he is a stranger.

So Chloe devises a plan.

Leaning against his bar as he pours another drink, she suggests, "Maybe we should go downstairs for the next one. I'll even join you."

He set the decanter down and twirls to face her. "Who are you and what have you done to the Detective?" he asks in jest. But his grin isn't as wide as it should be.

Chloe shrugs. "What? It could be fun. You're always telling me I need to have more fun."

Mostly, she wants to banish the gloom lingering in the depths of his fathomless eyes. Maybe Lux and its manic energy can breathe color and vibrancy back into him.

"I suppose it has been a while since I've made my rounds. People might start to wonder soon." He considers her proposal, already perking up at the prospect of attention and an adoring audience.

"It's decided. Now go get cleaned up or whatever." She gestures toward his wrinkled waistcoat with several streaks of dried snot. "You wouldn't want to disappoint your fans."

"Yourself included, Detective?" he purrs, hot breath fanning across her cheek.

She shivers. Damn, but the low registers of his voice did things to her. "You betcha. I might even be the Devil's number one fan." She means it as a joke. But the resulting smile almost splits his face in half, and she realizes how true it might be.

"Be back in a jiffy!" He bounds off to his bedroom with a renewed bounce in his steps.

Chloe knows from experience she has a good hour before Lucifer's ready. He's nothing if not fastidious about his appearance. She's seen the wall of grooming products in his bathroom. At the sound of running water, she decides she best distract herself from thoughts of a naked and wet Lucifer.

She calls Trixie. Out on the terrace with the wind in her hair, the conversation injects much-needed normality into her topsy-turvy world. She lounges on Lucifer's plush patio furniture while her daughter regales her with tales about the day-trip to the zoo. When her daughter passes the phone over to her ex, Chloe almost feels like herself again.

"Thanks again for taking her, Dan. You can drop her off tomorrow morning."

"I know it's not my weekend, but can I keep her until Monday? I'll get her to school." On the other end of the call, Dan opens and shuts several cabinet doors probably in search of dinner.

"That's fine with me," she replies absently. That would give her more time to sort out whatever the new status quo with Lucifer will be.

"Hey, Chlo." Concern bleeds through every word. "Don't spend tonight shut away alone at home. Go see a movie or take a walk. I'm worried about you after everything that's happened with Pierce."

She hesitates before answering, not knowing how he'd react. "I won't. I'm actually at Lucifer's place."

"Oh," his shock and worry ring as clear as bells. "Good to know he's doing okay then. Be careful?"

"I will."

After ending the call, she stands and stretches her hands heavenwards. Tension unfurls in the base of her spine, leaving her lighter than she's been in months. When she turns, she runs face-first into a firm chest. Lucifer. Thank... Hell, he's already dressed: dark suit, vest, and a red pocket square for a pop of color. His hair is perfectly coiffed with not a strand out of place. Tying together his effortlessly roguish appearance are his five o'clock shadow and smoky eyes.

He returns her once-over. "Detective, would you like a change of attire?"

Her gaze travels south, down her floral-print blouse and washed-out mom jeans. A wave of self-consciousness washes over her. "Should I? I mean, I didn't bring anything..."

"No need, darling. You're already perfect. Shall we?" He offers her his forearm, eyes bright with sincerity.

With her heart lodged in her throat, she takes his arm and lets him escort her to the elevator and downstairs into Lux.


	3. You trick your lovers that you're wicked

Chapter 3/7  
_You trick your lovers that you're wicked and divine_

Lux occupies a unique space in LA's nightlife. Though not nearly as unique as the owner himself. During the early evening hours, Lux operates as a piano bar where its king holds court in a more intimate setting. The DJ and the rest of the party crowd don't arrive until after ten. Chloe prefers the former over the latter, not only because Lucifer is more inclined to perform without having to compete with club music's thumping bass line. The patrons at this hour are older than their late-night counterparts. They're more interested in the easy pleasures of a glass of wine and audible conversation. No one demands Lucifer's immediate attention, and he sticks close to her.

They start with a drink at the bar, some hideously expensive bottle he keeps on reserve for special occasions. The bourbon goes down so smooth that she soon stops protesting the waste. Her first drink nestles warm and snug in her belly. They sit, loose-limbed and floating in each other's personal space, while the crowd trickles to fullness.

"I feel like playing a few songs. Care to join me on stage, darling?" Lucifer grabs both the bottle and their glasses before he stands. His eyes glimmer like stars in the dim lighting.

How can she refuse? Especially if he's holding the good bourbon hostage.

It's been a long while since she's sat front and center in Lux. The piano bench creaks under their collective weight. She doesn't sit pressed against his side, but close enough. He needs both arms to play effectively. He pours them another two fingers each. She cradles her tumbler, watching his throat convulse and his Adam's apple bob when he downs his in one gulp.

The urge to lick a line up the strong column of his neck proves too compelling. She drowns it with a mouthful of bourbon.

A hush falls over the bar when the first note rings in the air. All eyes are on them. No, they're all on Lucifer. He skips the chords and warm-up, diving straight into an upbeat melody at home in the Big Band era. The energy paints a smile on her lips, one he mirrors with boyish charm. The rest of the world falls away.

He performs a medley of contemporary pop and soulful jazz, his voice a soaring counterpoint to the piano. She will never compare his singing to that of an angel. Angels are aloof and removed from humanity. They can never achieve the stirring depths expressed by Lucifer's baritone.

The Devil has soul after all.

She laughs, unable to suppress the mirth bubbling up. Warmth cocoons her like her favorite throw blanket, fortified by the never-ending supply of excellent bourbon. His effortless grace, from the way he pours to the way he plays, mesmerizes her. After acknowledging the truth, she can't deny his more unearthly qualities even if she wants to. It's in his every breath, every word, every flick of his wrist, every quicksilver and razor-sharp smile, and every instance of directed eye contact. Little else can be as fascinating as Lucifer when he's in the room. Lucifer's presence burns as bright as the sun, and she can't tear her eyes away even if it blinds her.

She loves him so damn much.

But everything eventually ends. His fingers still and his voice fades into an echo only heard in her head.

He arches an eyebrow and wiggles the empty bottle in her face. "Enjoyed that, did you?"

She contemplates making a rude gesture but sticks out her tongue instead.

"Rude," he chuckles, sending a wave of vibrations through her body. "But I'll forgive you as you're having fun. I'll get us another bottle."

Chloe begrudges his departure but she'll be damned if she tells him. His ego is plenty big enough. As he approaches the bar, her eyes trace a path from the broad set of his shoulders to his trim waist and finally lands on his ass. God, his suits are really tailored to show off all his "assets." He might as well be nude. He'd probably like that. Probably has an exhibitionist streak.

The memory of Lucifer's naked body ambushes her, knocking out her reason and leaving it hogtied in a closet. She nearly passes out from the ensuing heat engulfing her and pooling between her legs. Apparently learning and accepting the truth about him hasn't put a damper on her libido. Her mind drifts back to the passionate kiss they shared earlier that afternoon. Maybe Lucifer won't object to a repeat performance.

Unfortunately, she's not the only one entertaining carnal thoughts about the Devil. At the bar, a pretty slip of a girl— Was she even old enough to be here? The girl in a short red dress sidles up to Lucifer with a coy smile on her painted lips. They're not exactly touching, but her bedroom eyes aren't any less indecent for the lack of direct contact. Chloe definitely can't hear what Lucifer's admirer is saying from this distance, but even he has to lean down to catch whatever filthy things she's whispering.

A second admirer soon joins the first, then swiftly followed by another and another until Lucifer has a veritable harem surrounding him. Every woman and man, perfect in their beauty and dress, wear the same rapturous and covetous expression. No doubt each and every one of them are hungry for the "best night of their life." Over their heads, Lucifer shoots her an apologetic look but doesn't extract himself from the group.

She picks at the hem of her twenty-dollar blouse purchased from Target on sale, unspooling more of the loose thread dangling from the hem. Her hastily redone ponytail hides how tangled her hair is. Then her hands find the edge of the piano bench, gripping the wood for dear life.

Chloe's arousal dies a swift and painful death, sentenced to the guillotine by the mental parade of his ex-lovers. Beautiful people constantly throw themselves at Lucifer. It happens all the time during cases and interrogations. The thought grips her like a riptide, pulls her under, and shreds her self-esteem on the rocky shores of her doubt.

Salt stings her eyes. She can't stay any longer, surrounded by beautiful people and their photoshoot-ready hair and makeup and their designer clothes.

Moving on instinct, she retreats to the time-honored refuge of all women three drinks too deep and on the verge of tears at a nightclub: the ladies' room. Thankfully, there's no line for the restroom at this hour, but it's far from empty. A gaggle of girlfriends occupies the sinks, fixing their makeup and chit-chatting.

She throws herself at the remaining open spot and wrenches on the faucet. The cold water is a shock to her system, but it can't dispel the cloud hanging over her head. Get it together, she berates herself. She can't cry over losing what she never had in the first place. In the mirror, her haggard reflection stares back with droplets run down her chin and gather in a growing wet spot staining her collar. The light from the bulbs framing the mirror holds a personal grudge against her, washing out her complexion. She'd be right at home in a crowd of extras in a zombie flick. No additional makeup needed.

She chokes back another sob.

"Are you all right?" asks a kind, female voice.

She jumps and spins to face the woman addressing her. The statuesque Asian woman towers over Chloe; her dark brown eyes alight with concern and her sleek black hair falling free in waves most women would kill for. Her navy blue dress is form-fitting but tasteful. She's a literal model that just stepped off a Milan runway.

"You... your dress is beautiful," she blurts out. Drunk Chloe always has less of a filter.

"Oh, thank you. It has pockets," she proudly proclaims, turning out her left pocket to reveal a wrapped chocolate chip cookie.

Mid-laugh, Chloe bursts into tears. Of course, the gorgeous model lady speaks with a refined, British accent and lines the pockets of her thousand-dollar dress with snacks. She's been nothing but kind and good-humored, but it's another slap in Chloe's face. Chloe is a single mom on what some argue is the wrong side of thirty. Lucifer has seen it all and done it all–also done it all. What can she possibly offer a man—a freaking angel like Lucifer?

"Don't cry," the stunning woman begs.

Chloe sobs harder. Her nostrils clog with snot. She can't get enough air in her lungs. The tears won't stop no matter how many time she wipes her eyes with her sleeve. She knows she's a mess. But she can't stop. She wants it to stop so badly.

Her new friend stays with her, quietly muttering reassurances and fetching Chloe wads of toilet paper to blow her nose. Under her care, Chloe's sobs eventually subside into hiccups.

"I'm Astrid," the dazzling woman introduces herself at long last. "What's your name?"

"Chloe," she sniffles.

"A pleasure to meet you, Chloe. Are you here with someone? I can get a message to them so they don't worry."

The reminder knifes Chloe in the gut. "No, not really. I wasn't. I mean, it doesn't matter now. He won't notice..."

Astrid makes a sympathetic noise low in her throat. "I'm sorry to hear that, dear."

"Forget the jerk," one of Astrid's friends, another Asian woman wearing wide-rimmed glasses and a glitzy gold dress, chimes in. Her impish face and aggressively energetic delivery remind Chloe of Ella. She wiggles her fingers in a friendly wave. "I'm Tina by the way."

Chloe bites her tongue, struggling to keep herself in check. Eventually, she forces herself to return the greeting. "Hi..."

"Don't mind her. Tina means well." Astrid shakes her head fondly.

"Tina's right," Tina grumbles before applying a layer of electric pink lipstick, then smacks her lips a resounding pop.

Astrid continues prodding with her gentle concern. "Is there someone else you can call? Family? A friend?"

"I'm fine," she insists. No way in hell is she calling Dan or letting Trixie see her like this. She'd left her car parked downstairs in Lux's garage. She can drive herself home after sobering up. Okay, she has a plan now. Sober up, get home and bury herself under a mountain of blankets. She's good. She can focus on executing that plan. "I'll be fine in a while."

Astrid's frown deepens, wearing an expression which Chloe is rarely on the receiving end of.

Chloe flashes her badge still clipped to her jeans. "Really, I can take care of myself."

"Ohh," Tina leans around Astrid for a better look, slinging her arm around the taller woman's waist. "Are you a cop for reals? Are you here to bust somebody? Is this a sting?"

"No. No. I'm off duty."

A wicked grin spreads across Tina's shockingly pink lips. "Hmmm, show that to the jerk you were crying over. Maybe arrest 'em to teach 'em a lesson."

"It's none of our business," Astrid sighs.

"Uh-huh, which is why you were mother-henning her?" Tina shoots back, raising a finely pencil eyebrow.

As Astrid opens her mouth to argue, the restroom door swings open and slams into the adjacent wall with a bang. Everyone whirls to face the man staggering into the room.

"Detective!" Lucifer shouts.

Tina jumps back, releases Astrid, and whistles. "Damn!"

"Excuse me. Sir," Astrid scolds. "This is the women's washroom."

He barely spares Astrid a glance, attention fixed on Chloe alone. He furrows his brow, sweeping his scrutinizing gaze up and down the length of her body. It's as if he's checking for injuries. He steps forward and reaches for her. Chloe ducks behind Astrid, using the taller woman as a shield. Were Chloe not inebriated, she would be ashamed of her behavior.

Lucifer falters. His hands drop limply to his side. "Detective, you were gone. I was worried when you didn't come back. What's wrong? Why are you crying?"

"I'm not," she replies petulantly, fighting back a fresh wave of tears. "Go back to your fan club, Lucifer."

"I thought you were my biggest fan," he teases. When she doesn't respond, the fragile but hopeful expression slips from his face and shatters into a thousand pieces.

By then, a curious audience gathers around them. Women are sticking their heads out of the stalls, staring at Lucifer with a familiar hunger. Another small group congregates in the doorway, tittering with excitement.

"Detective," he swallows audibly. "I've ruined it, haven't I? It was a matter of time." The agony twisting across his face tears her heart in twain. He wears rejection as well as a poorly fitted suit.

She hates herself for making him feel like he's solely responsible for all the world's ills. "No, Lucifer, you haven't done anything."

"I don't understand."

Loosened by alcohol, the words almost escape her in a screeching litany. She swallows them all back, each more painful and cutting than a bowl of broken glass. "Just forget it."

For a moment, he considers her request. But Chloe is never so lucky. She can pinpoint the exact moment he digs in his heels. But it's different from when he does it on cases. His eye contact is purposeful but calm as he dials back his usual intensity. His shoulders roll forward and present a posture that, while not subservient, comes off as acquiescent. "I can't. Please tell me, Detective."

The Devil shouldn't beg. He should beg her. She gestures to Astrid. "Look at her. Look at me. How can I compare?"

"There's no competition." His eyes never leave her face, like she's the only thing that matters. Not even when he addresses Astrid with an afterthought. "No offense, darling. I'm sure you're lovely and all."

"None taken," Astrid says in bewilderment. Sensing the conversation has taken a turn, she steps out from between Chloe and Lucifer. But she remains shoulder-to-shoulder with Chloe in a silent show of solidarity.

Chloe tries another angle of attack. "And what about all the people out there?"

"None of them hold a candle to you, Detective," he replies easily.

"Your life is a never-ending sex party with LA's most beautiful people. You would give all that up?" Her stupid drunk brain conjures up all the people she interviewed for the flight attendants case. She's fine with them. She holds nothing against them. They're in the past. But what about the future? She can't change Lucifer after all.

He takes a deep breath and straightens. He's not looming but gathering his courage. "De— Dar— Chloe," he breathes her name, and she wants to melt into him. "I desire no one but you. I want to be with you in whatever way you'll allow. Tell me, do you desire someone else? Would you expect me to share you with another person?"

Her lower lip trembles with emotions. "No."

Lucifer Morningstar, the bastard, has ruined her for all people.

"I will never ask something of you I would not reciprocate in kind. There will never be other people between us. Isn't that what it means to choose each other?"

Trust him to use her earlier words against her. He's made his feelings about them, exclusivity, and monogamy quite clear. Lucifer's word is his bond. That should be the end of that. If they were human, the matter would be settled.

Except he's not human, and she is.

"Miracle or not, I'm a divorced cop with a nine-year-old kid. You are a literal son of God," she reminds him.

Astrid and several other women gape at her. Chloe knows what she looks like to the others. Crazy. A sloppy hot mess melting down in a public restroom. Yet there's a strange power to speaking the truth even if no one believes you. Maybe this is why Lucifer never made any efforts to hide who he is.

"This..." She points back and forth between them. "How can this work out?"

In reality, they're less than three feet away from each other. But to her, the yawning chasm between them—between divinity and humanity, the eternal and the ephemeral—grows ever wider. The breadth and enormity of his experiences, his literal eons of life boggles her. He's seen entire civilizations rise and fall. He's breathed air untainted by man's progress and industry. He's glimpsed Rome's humble beginnings before the empire was even a glimmer in the eyes of its first emperor.

She has never been more aware of how small and inconsequential she is in the grand scheme of things.

"You could never be inconsequential," he says breathlessly.

She wants to believe him, especially when he looks at her like that. Like... She's seen that gleam in his eyes before, back when she'd convinced herself he was human and nothing more. Now that she knows, she's somehow less equipped to deal with it than ever before.

He takes a shuddering breath, squares his shoulder, and works his jaw in a determined set. He gets this way when he's bent on convincing her of his side. "Chloe, these last two years have been the most meaningful ones in a very long time. I found a purpose of my own choosing. Against all odds, I found a home. I've met people who have come closest to seeing and accepting me as I am. Why? Because you are good and selfless and you gather the best of what I've seen in humanity around you."

She shakes her head in denial. His praise is too heavy a crown for her brow. The pedestal he's crafted is too high. "No, Lucifer. I'm only human. I'm not some goddess or angel."

Not like him.

"No, you misunderstand, Detective! You wouldn't be half as brilliant if you were divine. I have watched you struggle when faced with the darkness inside yourself and others. You choose good despite how difficult it is. You lead by an example so bright and fierce that even the Devil thinks twice. That I might think I too can be..." He can't bring himself to voice the rest. It should be impossible for a man of Lucifer's stature to appear small. But he does. And she knows all too well how he sees himself: the Devil, a monster.

"You know I don't think of you that way. You're my partner. You're...Lucifer..." she finishes dumbly, her tongue a stupid leaden weight in her mouth.

He smiles lightly and shakes his head in disbelief. "Which is why it's unfathomable you're still here. That you would choose to be here. That you'd ever choose me. I can't fathom why you'd think I was worthy of your grace or consideration. But I want to be."

"Lucifer..."

"This is virgin territory for me. There's no telling what the future holds or what Dad has planned." The haunted look on his face ages him by centuries. He squeezes his eyes shut, burying those fears of what they can't control. Then he meets her gaze with almost begging eyes. "But there is one thing I can say with certainty: I'm the one humbled before you. Because you, Chloe Jane Decker, are the brightest soul in all of existence, and not even the stars I've fashioned can hope to measure up."

Someone in a stall sniffles loudly before blowing their nose. Chloe feels a sympathetic tickle in the back of her eyes and throat.

For once, the reminder of his divinity doesn't sting. This isn't any easier for him despite what he is. He's not omniscient like his Father. Like her, he's all too flawed and scared of this dark, seemingly bottomless abyss under both their feet. But he's willing to—no, he wants to face that together with her. Hand in hand, with their eyes wide open to the truth and all its beautiful, terrible consequences.

Even though she has no wings, she flies across the space separating them to wind her arms around his waist. He stumbles back under her tackle but quickly rights them with a steadying hand on the small of her back.

Like other times in the past, he holds her gently, curling protectively around her shorter frame and tucking her head under his chin. She wishes this embrace can be hers alone too. Maybe she doesn't have to share this with any other being, divine or otherwise.

A soft hum of approval sweeps through their audience, crash-landing Chloe back into reality. Now that she's been talked back from the figurative ledge, mortification overwhelms her. She loosens her death grip but doesn't step out of his personal space. Hiding her beet red cheeks in his shirt, she murmurs awkwardly, "Maybe we should take this elsewhere."

"Of course." Though he steps back, he keeps his hand on her back, barely grazing the fabric of her shirt. "Apologies, ladies, for intruding on your space. I'll let the bar know your next round's on the house."

She can't fight the smile creeping across her lips. It was such a Lucifer sort of apology. She sneaks a look over her shoulder, mouthing a silent "thank you" to Astrid and Tina. Astrid returns the gratitude with an elegant nod, while Tina throws up two thumbs up.

Chloe shuffles out of the restroom with Lucifer hot on her tail. Through the door shutting behind them, Chloe can still hear someone exclaim, "Well, that was legit bonkers!"

She can't agree more. But with each step forward on this strange twisting path, her footsteps grow steadier and more confident. Besides, she has the Lightbringer at her side to illuminate the dark.


	4. Hold your hair in deep devotion (How dee

Chapter 4/7  
_Y__Hold your hair in deep devotion (How deep?) At least as deep as the Pacific Ocean_

Lucifer whisks her off to the bar and seats her at a stool with a bottle of water. She sips gingerly as he leans over the counter to convey instructions to the bartender. Chloe spins in her seat to face the rest of Lux, which has completed its transformation from piano bar to nightclub. Some staff member has wheeled the piano away to clear more room for the dance floor. The DJ is set up in his usual booth, blasting song samples to test the sound system. Her foot taps along to the beat of the music despite not recognizing many of the songs.

"Shall we retire upstairs?"

She cranes her neck and blinks owlishly at him. She takes several seconds to parse his question, then pouts. Going upstairs goes against her plan for the evening. "That doesn't sound very fun," she sulks.

"I dunno, others would argue that's where the real fun starts," he teases. He nudges the water to her lips, encouraging her to drink more.

Emboldened by his dark eyes and the remaining liquid courage coursing through her veins, she jumps to her feet. Though she sways, she remains upright. Mostly.

"I'm not like most people," she declares.

He settles against the bar, watching her with a bemused expression. "Course not, darling."

She chucks the water bottle onto the bar and leans into him. He has no right looking so good standing there. She lays a hand on his abdomen, almost cooing when the muscles underneath tense at her touch. "I'm a miracle, didn't you know?" she stage-whispers.

He presses a soft kiss to her temple. "So I've heard." His words are fond yet resigned.

"Dance with me?" She slips both hands into the vest pockets. Her fingers glide back and forth across the inner lining, enjoying the feel of silk against her skin.

Overhead, the lights dim, morphing from warm yellow to electric blue. Distantly, Chloe hears a set of doors swing open and the excited murmur of more patrons flooding into the club. A flash of sequins shimmer on the edge of her vision. The music picks up, transitioning into a song she might have heard in a supermarket. She ignores it all in favor of him.

"Whatever you desire, Chloe."

He drapes a loose arm around her waist and leads her onto the dance floor. The other patrons part like the Red Sea. She doesn't miss the slew of envious glances thrown her way. She tightens her grip on his suit jacket. They can have him over her cold, dead body. When they stop at a spot to his liking, he releases her and tries to step back.

She rolls her eyes and closes the gap, winding her arms around his neck. "You're dancing with me, Lucifer, not at me," she says cheekily, squeezing the nape of his neck.

His hands settle on her hips, fingers flexing against where her blouse meets her jeans. Pressing her forehead to his shoulder, she wills the tense lines of his body to relax. Together, they sway to the music's beat, oblivious to the sea of bodies around them.

_What if I never run into you?  
__What if you never smiled at me?  
__What if I had noticed you, too?  
__And you never showed up where I happened to be_

There's something familiar about the male vocalist belting the lyrics. Both the words and the singer have that quality that reminds her of her teenage youth. Tilting her head back, the dazzling light overhead blinds her. She blinks rapidly to clear the black spots from her vision. A smile, carefree and over-sized, stretches across her lips at the sight of Lucifer's face.

"Enjoying yourself?" he asks.

"You betcha," she shouts over the music.

_What if I hadn't asked for your name?  
__And time hadn't stopped when you said it to me? Oh  
__Of all of the plans that I could have made  
__Of all of the nights that I couldn't sleep, oh_

A different vocalist takes the lead in this strange musical chair of a song. His voice is deeper than the previous two before him.

She snorts, drawing his curious attention. "Is this the Backstreet Boys?"

"You would know with your love of all things 90s."

She swats his arm playfully. "I was more of an N'Sync girl, ya know."

_Is it love? Is it fate?  
__Who am I? Who's to say?  
__Don't know exactly what it means _

A spasm runs through his hands. The lyrics unwittingly strike at a sore spot he can't overlook. With an accusing glower, he glares up at the ceiling. She runs several fingers through his hair, hoping the sensation will distract him. That it will bring him back to her.

Their gazes meet and hold.

_Is it love? Is it fate?  
__Where it leads, who can say?  
__Maybe you and I were meant to be_

She recognizes the mischief brewing inside his eyes too late. Without warning, he takes her hand out of his hair and twirls her. She is weightless, her hair fanning into a gold halo crowning her head.

Falling flat against his chest once more, she squawks, "Lucifer!" Laughter still rings in her voice while trying to maintain a straight face.

He draws her flush against him, searing heat into her spine.

_What are the chances that we'd end up dancing?  
__Two in a million, once in a life  
__That I could have found you, put my arms around you  
__Two in a million (it's like two in a million)  
__Like once in a life, yeah  
__What are the chances? _

She burns. From the body heat rolling off the dancing crowd. From the alcohol working through her system. From Lucifer's touch cradling the small of her back, the lithe length of his body pressed to her front, the banked fires lurking behind his eyes.

She drags him down to her level. Maybe a worm's eye view will quiet those heavenly fears.

_What if I never run into you?  
__What if you never smiled at me?_

She kisses him with everything she can muster, pouring her feelings into him. She doesn't care about the what ifs. They may never learn whether God put her here in Lucifer's path for any reason. She can't change that. So for now, she's okay being his miracle if it means he's hers in return.

-x-x-x-

She collapses onto the bed, starfishing across the center of the massive mattress. A fine sheen of sweat clings to her skin, and her muscles ache in that way after a satisfying workout. Humming softly, she caresses the rumpled but soft sheets. "Your bed is..." She squints at the ceiling, grasping for words. "Awesome," she finally decides with a firm nod.

Somewhere from the foot of the bed, he huffs. Not angry or annoyed. Just good-humored. "Is this another of your drunken propositions, Detective?"

She flops over onto her stomach, swinging both feet in the air. He's peeled off his suit jacket and waistcoat, now proceeding to remove his cufflinks and loosen his sleeves. He doesn't appear sweaty like she feels, but his hair is halfway between disheveled and bedhead.

Chloe did that. She had been rubbing his curls free of their product-bound prison all night.

"Oh, you'd know if I was trying to seduce you." She runs her tongue over her lower lip, moistening it in preparation of... Well, she hopes she's earned at least a goodnight kiss.

His arms fall limply to his side, sleeve cuffs undone to offer a glimpse of his wrists. She has the inexplicable urge to sink her teeth into the skin there. Flicking her gaze to his face, her breath catches in his throat. The hungry look in his eyes is undeniable, pinning her to the bed with its ferocity.

This is not new. She reminds her pounding heart, but the damn thing continues running berserk. Lucifer's powers don't work on her. They've established that time and time again. He can't draw out her desires. Not in that way.

"Careful, darling." He flashes a razor-sharp smile that sends her pulse racing. "You shouldn't play with Hellfire."

Lucifer has never been shy about his desires. No matter how strange or exotic, he treats them as matter-of-fact. Except when it comes to her. Then his want is a starved and beaten thing, posturing like a cornered animal as something bigger and meaner.

He turns away first, bending over to retrieve his phone from his discarded jacket. "Shall I arrange an Uber for you? Surely, the spawn is expecting you."

She pushes up on her elbows and slides down the length of the bed until she's seated less than a foot away from him. "Dan has her for the weekend."

"Ah," he mutters, now at a loss.

Sobered by his uncertainty, she grips her own upper arms. "If you want me to leave, I will."

He fixes his gaze on the floor, jaws clenching. "I don't want you to leave. But I would never keep you anywhere against your will."

"Good, we're in agreement then. We're both where we each wannabe." She falls back on the bed. "'Sides, your bed is _awesome_."

He chuckles and moves closer until she can see the pleats in his pressed trousers from where she laid. "Let me find you something to sleep in."

She blinks, and he vanishes in a flash. She sinks deeper into the mattress, half-listening to the sound of him rummaging through his walk-in. Halfway to Dreamland, she thinks about the last time she slept here overnight. Without thinking, she reaches for the hollow of her throat before remembering her necklace is not there.

Eventually, he returns and presents her with a bundle of clothing. She shakes the shirt out, mildly disappointed that it's not one of his button-ups. No _Risky Business_ then. At least until she recognizes the logo on the green cotton tee: Pops. The other article is an oversized pair of boxers that don't seem his style at all.

"You can use the bathroom if you wish," he offers solicitously.

She nods and breezes past him into the master bath. She had also poked around here during her impromptu birthday party. It's the only room in the penthouse with a door. She strips off her day clothes, leaving them pooled in an empty corner.

Standing in front of the mirror in nothing but her underwear, she washed her face and neck with a moist hand towel. The lighting here is less harsh, but she's so tired looking. She traces the stretch marks on her tummy, brushes against the underside of her breast, and shudders.

Nope, she's had enough of losing her shit in bathrooms for a lifetime. With jerky movements, she yanks the tee over her head. The t-shirt falls to her mid-thigh, so she pulls the boxers over her panties. She tries to untangle her hair by running her fingers through the strands but soon gives up. It's something she can worry about in the morning. After a long moment of consideration, she borrows his toothbrush and gives her mouth a quick scrub. The last thing she wants is to wake up with alcohol breath.

By the time she exits the bathroom, the living room is dark save for the soft diffuse glow from his wet bar. A gauzy curtain is pulled over the glass bedroom wall facing east. The bed sheets remain black, but she suspects he's changed the bedding for a fresh, identical-looking set. Lucifer has also changed, discarding the rest of his suit for a pair of pajama bottoms. They look as soft to touch as the bedsheets. No shirt though. Should she thank or curse her luck?

He toys with his ring as he asks, "Is there a side you'd prefer?"

"Left side."

He nods and pads around to the bed's far side. She clamps down on a squeak, caught off-guard by the sight of his bare feet. Somehow that's far more intimate than his naked torso, which she appreciates a lot, thank you very much.

She kneels on her side of the bed, preparing to climb under the sheets. When he turns to shut off the lamp, he grants her an unobstructed view of his back for the first time in months. She ogles the muscles coiled under his shoulder blades before one very important observation jumps out at her.

"Wait, Lucifer!" She shuffles across the top of the bed, hands extended.

He tenses, always quick to comply with her orders. Though she aches to touch him, she resists the urge. Instead, she drinks in the sight of his smooth, unmarred back. The grisly scars she once saw are still embossed in her memory. Now she must reconcile that memory with what she sees before her.

"Your scars are gone," she marvels.

"Ah, yes," he breathes somehow without working air through his lungs. "Side effects of the wings returning."

Chloe's brain crashes then reboots straight into Detective mode. This is her life now—her new world inhabited by the divine and disappearing scars. The scars... Souvenirs from cutting off his freaking wings—freaking angel wings she once put out an APB on early in their partnership. They should be gone. Except he had ranted about how they came back. He had even mentioned them during lunch earlier today. And back at the loft... She can't recall clearly because of her shock then, but the loft might have been littered with feathers...

How the hell had she overlooked such a crucial detail?

"Wings," she mutters in shock, unable to tear her eyes away. "You still have wings."

His reflection meets her eyes through the glass. "I may have been cast out, but I haven't fallen yet."

She frowns at his use of the word 'yet'. "Can... Can I see them?" Too late, she wonders if she's asked for something inappropriate. Score one for still tipsy Chloe.

He studies her through the window but makes no move to face her. Overlaid across the twinkling LA skyline, his gaze is midnight black and unfathomable. "Considering you've seen everything else, I might as well show you. You'll want to stand back, Detective," he replies with a brisk, clipped tone. "They take up a lot of space."

Nodding, she climbs out of bed and backs away until she's one step outside the room's threshold. He shoots one last look at her and deliberately rolls each shoulder. She swears the push and pull of muscles isn't human. Of course, they're not. He's not human.

Then her world explodes into white down.

His unfurling wings whip up a gust strong enough to knock her flat on her ass if she hadn't grabbed the wall first. They're ginormous: each individual wingspan longer than he's tall. They flutter before folding in and settling against Lucifer's back. She can't even see the rest of him under the mass of feathers.

With shaky steps, she reenters the room and edges toward the bed. The fake wings recovered at the auction were beautiful and otherworldly. From a distance, his wings appear much the same; feathers glowing with sublime, ethereal light. But as she draws closer, the illusion of perfection falls apart. Ragged isn't the exact descriptor, but it comes close. Entire sections, especially from the center of the wings out to the tips, looked plucked bare with new downy growth coming in. The remaining feathers are ruffled, many askew and sticking out in every direction.

When Chloe was twelve, she and her father rescued a bird from a group of young boys with a pellet gun at the park. They wrapped the injured bird, one wing bent at an unnatural angle, in a towel and carted it off to the local nature center. On the car ride over, it squawked a litany of harsh and angry sounds while she cradled it in her lap. She counted herself lucky that it didn't peck her despite it glaring daggers with bright, red eyes.

Lucifer's no spotted towhee, but Chloe knows what wings on the mend look like. Which begs the question of how bad they were before he started healing.

Her voice trembles as she asks, "Can I touch you? Them?"

She expects him to refuse her. Just as he denied her when she reached for his scars years ago. He has no trouble saying no when it suits him. But maybe it's a testament to how far they've come because he doesn't.

At his sharp intake of breath, his wings shudder with the rest of his body. "Help yourself."

She's not fooled by his breezy tone, especially when his wings fluffed and stretched. She starts near the top, where the wing is more bone than feathers, running a feather-light touch from the wrist joint to his back. There is definitely extra muscle under the junction where his back and wings meet. Her hands linger there, inches away from snow-white feathers.

Stop stalling, she chastises herself.

His feathers—the coverts, she recalls from a childhood traipsing through nature centers and national parks—are impossibly soft and radiate heat like the rest of him. He's definitely not like a bird in that sense. Gathering her courage, she drags her fingers lower into his secondary feathers. Still soft, warm, and utterly devoid of any markings. His plumage is thinner here. Patchy even.

His freight-train breathing serves as a harsh counterpoint to the room's pervading quiet A million thoughts race through her head, each more inadequate than the last. How long until you're healed? You will heal, won't you? Why didn't you show me sooner? I'm sorry.

She swallows all of them. "Look at me, Lucifer."

He sighs. One wing nudges her thigh, encouraging her to back away. He bumps the lamp with a wingtip when he turns, prompting an irritated glare at the appendages.

She smothers a giggle. He's so indignant about the tiniest things.

Seeing him from the front—the juxtaposition of his familiar face and alien wings folded behind him dropkicks the air from her lungs. Lucifer Morningstar is a freaking angel. The difference between knowing it and seeing it are continents, no, planets and galaxies apart.

"Fuck," he curses. "Damn things' melted your mortal brain."

The profanity knocks her out of her stupor. She's never heard him drop the f-bomb before. "What? No?"

Now that she thinks about it, the world feels fuzzy around the edges. But she hadn't been sober before he gave her the celestial Full Monty. She cracks a smile and saves the joke for another time when they're both less raw.

"I'm good. Better than good." She frames his face with her hands, glad to add this to her repertoire of Lucifer-approved body contact. "Thank you."

"Whatever for?" His eyes widen, then the surprise settles into something closer to suspicion. She tries not to let it cut her too deep.

"For showing me. They're so beautiful."

His body stiffens and his lips thin into a severe, unhappy line. Resentment steals across his facial features, and his wings shrink into his back. "They're not me."

If she weren't touching him, he'd probably be clear on the other side of the room. His wings are a touchy, complicated subject. There's baggage she needs to tiptoe around. "But they are part of you. What makes them beautiful because they belong to you."

"You really believe that." Lucifer gapes at her, mouth hanging open until she taps his chin to close it.

He draws such a stark line between his angel and devil side, failing to see he is never one or the other. People are multitudes onto themselves, collages built from sanding down the rough edges that don't fit together. She gets the inkling that her lifetime of humanity afforded her with more practice than his eons of life. "This can't be easy for you," she swallows and adds, "So thank you for everything. For showing me. For saving us back at the loft."

His wings snap close, but an errant twitch ripple through his feathers from base to tip. "Yes, well, I very well couldn't stand around and allow Cain to turn us into Swiss cheese."

Her grip on his cheeks trembles. The higher-ups have severely limited Chloe's access to Marcus' case; conflict of interest and all that. But it's impossible to stop the gossip mills within the ranks. Forensics recovered four semi-automatic rifles and an undisclosed number of shell casings at the loft. Knowing what she knows about a rifle's firing rate, that number can't be less than four dozens. The only wound Chloe sustained was the bruising from the handgun shot caught by her bulletproof vest. Lucifer must have used his wings to shield them from every other bullet that followed.

Oblivious to her inner turmoil, Lucifer rambles on, "The molting and itching's been unbearable. I would cut off the buggers and be done, but I have the feeling I won't grow another pair like before."

His wings and every feather attached droop in defeat. It's incredible how expressive they are while he keeps a straight face.

Okay, wow. There's a hella lot to unpack in that one statement. Cutting off his wings sounds way too close to self-harm or mutilation. The fact he can be so blase about it triggers a different set of internal alarms. Okay Chloe, focus on what you can. Though she doubts she'd be equipped even when sober.

"Good, no cutting them off. Let's keep it that way," she says, before realizing how close it sounds to a command. Over his shoulder, she slides her fingers over the arch of his left wing. He shivers, but she doubts it's due to the central air.

He reaches for her, a hesitant but hopeful request painted across his face. She shuffles closer, cupping the back of his neck in silent encouragement. As he folds his arms around her, his wings surround them in a cocoon pulsing with warmth and starlight. Never has she felt more protected and cherished than at this moment.

"I won't use them for Him. But for you, Chloe, I will."


	5. All the feelings was all or nothing, and

Chapter 5/7  
_All the feelings was all or nothing, and I took everything I could_

For the second time in 24 hours, Chloe awakes in Lucifer's bed. The sun's rays, while warm, can't compare to the glorious body heat she's nestled against. Like a good deep-tissue massage, it penetrates bone-deep and leeches the tension from her whole body.

Cracking one eye open, she shifts gently to look at her bedmate's face. He put the wings away last night, but their absence doesn't diminish his beauty bathed in the morning light. With his eyes closed, she can count each individual lash, all long and artfully curved without the aid of an eyelash curler. She tugs a strand of his sleep-mused hair. When she releases it, it springs back into a whorl framing his forehead.

She giggles. He's adorable. Satan is freaking adorable.

Her bladder won't allow her to linger in his warm embrace. All the alcohol and water from the previous night is clambering to the exits. Not wanting to wake him, she carefully extracts herself from his arms. Her heart cracks at his tiny noise of loss when she slips out of bed.

"I'll be right back," she whispers even though he probably can't hear her.

When her feet meet the icy bathroom floor, she bites back a yelp. She quickly finishes her business, refusing to remain a millisecond longer than necessary. The promise of warmth and security waiting sends her racing back in record speed. As she climbs in, a pair of increasingly familiar arms pull her snug against a firm torso.

"You came back."

He lies half-propped against the headboard, draping an arm across her shoulder. She wiggles and settles into a comfortable position cradled under his armpit. His words rumble through his chest, sending shivers coursing down her spine. She wonders what it might mean to wake up regularly at his side. Would that tinge of wonder blended with skepticism ever fade? With enough time, can she nurture that spark of joy into a roaring fire?

"Bathroom's cold. Bed's warm," she grunts and burrows deeper into his side.

He chuckles.

They lapse into silence, tangled with one another. Other than the hum of the AC and the rustling of his curtains, the penthouse is quiet and peaceful. Not even the sound of LA's hectic and unrelenting traffic can penetrate this far up. For the first time in a long time, there are no responsibilities chasing her to rise early from bed and no obligations demanding her immediate attention. She can be content in this very moment, knowing the next will be equally blissful. It's like... She shakes her head to chase the thought away.

Lucifer, eagle-eyed when it suits him, notices. "What is it, Detective?"

She rolls her eyes. Even in bed, he still addresses her by her title. Although it sounds like an endearment on his lips, much like how he uses darling on others. "This is nice," she murmurs and chews on the inside of her cheek. "It's... It's like a little slice of heaven."

He falters ever so slightly before resuming stroking her hair. "Heaven has nothing on you, Chloe."

Pushing up on her elbows, she slithers up the length of his body to lean against the headboard. He shivers as loose strands of her hair drag across his biceps and his chest. The motion shakes his hand free. It falls to rest on her lower back, where her borrowed t-shirt rode up to expose bare skin. Face to face once more, they gaze at each other while caught in the same shallow breath.

"You gotta stop saying stuff like that," she says.

Lifting his other hand previously splayed over his stomach, he tucks a flyaway strand behind her ear. "I always tell the truth. Point of pride, remember?"

She runs her tongue over her dry lips. His eyes flicker down to trace the movement. A tension coils low in her belly and heat ignites between her thighs. His questing fingers map the shell of her ear and down the column of her neck. She bites back a moan.

"May I?" His breath caresses her face as gently as his touch stroking her pulse point.

God, yes. No. _Hell_ yes. She nods.

Cupping her chin, he closes the distance to capture her lips. His grip, though firm, leaves enough slack for her to break away easily. He's always leaving a way out for her like he expects her to change her mind. Bracing her hands to his chest for support, she leans into his kiss.

He emits a soft noise of approval, tilting his head to suckle her lower lips. He kisses her slowly and luxuriously, but leave no room to doubt his passion. He kisses like he has all the time in the world to savor and cherish her. She whimpers and collapses against him, all strength abandoning her in favor of his. He devours her without granting her entry or demanding his own. Impatient, Chloe tries to hurry him along. She tries to deepen the kiss by licking at the seam of his lips. He smirks, but he doesn't give in to her demands.

"Lucifer..." she moans, low and wanting.

Saying his name flips a switch inside him. Growling, he nips at her lip, causing her to gasp at the sensation. He slips his tongue into her mouth, curling around hers in a complicated tango. Fuck, okay, that gives new meaning to the term "tongue-tied."

She tries to give as good as she gets, matching the feverish pace of his stroking tongue and rubbing her palms over his chest. One moment she's sucking his tongue, and the next she's flat on her back. Lucifer looms over her, eyes wild and body quivering. She whines at the loss of contact, hypnotized by the sight of his kiss-bruised lips. Winding her arms around his neck, she tries to draw him down, but it's like moving a boulder. She tries again to no avail.

Bracing his weight on his elbows and knees, he holds himself over her. He holds himself back. "Detect— Chloe— I... I... Are you sure?" he asks feverishly, conflicted eyes darting across her flushed face.

Goddammit, she didn't come this far for him to chicken out. She wants him so bad. Devil. Angel. Man. All of him. Let her say the right thing for once. Please.

"Lucifer, I want you."

This rubber band moment stretches between them, then finally snaps.

"Yes," he hisses, diving forward to kiss her with renewed ardor.

She receives him happily, joyously, threading her fingers through his hair. Sloppily slanting her mouth to his, she arches into him, shuddering against the deliciously hard planes of his body. More importantly, there's his erection grounding against her hip. Good thing she's already lying down because she might faint from the inferno scorching between them. Hell, she's surprised their clothes haven't burned to ashes. One hand creeps under her shirt, tracing patterns over her abdomen that have her keening. He deepens his kiss, drinking the noise like top-shelf liquor.

She tugs impatiently at his waistband. "Off. Naked. Now," she commands, reduced to single word sentences.

He sits back, coming to a kneeling position between her legs. The smug grin on his face usually drives her bonkers, but it makes her blood sing at this moment. Okay, she still wants to punch him a little, but she wants to fuck him more.

Having regained his confidence, he arches a superior eyebrow and spans a large hand over her inner thigh. "Patience, Detective."

She twists off the mattress long enough to wrestle the t-shirt off, flinging it into the living room. She hopes it lands near the elevator, planting a flag and a warning that the penthouse's owner is well and truly occupied. Exposed to the cool air, her nipples tighten. With his attention wholly captured, she draws her knees in and shucks her borrowed sleep shorts and then her panties.

"Didn't think the Devil cared for patience or any virtue," she shoots back to fend off her growing bashfulness. He's seen her naked before, but it's different when she's purposely offering herself on a silver platter. When she's so wet and ready she can smell it.

His eyes are almost black as the space between stars, swirling with desire. Unlike most men, he doesn't ogle her breasts straight away. With his gaze still fixed on her face, he shoves his pants down and kicks it off one long leg at a time. Chloe has none of the same scruples, riveted by the sight of his proud, uncircumcised erection. Okay, she's seen him naked before. But he hadn't been hard then.

"My eyes are up here, love," he teases.

Snapping her focus up, she wets her lips and beckons him with a crooked finger. He obeys, all limber and easy grace stretched over her. The first moment of skin-on-skin contact is electric, shooting down her spine into her core. "Lucifer..."

Sliding his hands up both her sides, he grazes the underside of her breasts while mouthing her neck. He sucks on her skin, not hard enough to bruise but enough to draw strangled whimpers from her throat. Moving lower, he pauses over her left collarbone. Dazed and confused by his sudden stillness, she looks down and gulps. His lips hover over the white webbing of her scar, a souvenir of their first case together.

Taking rein of her courage, she hooks her legs around his waist and grinds her wetness against him. He makes a low, surprised noise but surges back into action, laving his tongue over her scar and hands massaging her breasts.

"Chloe. Chloe. Chloe," he mutters reverently against her collar.

A lightning bolt of lust strikes, stoking her need to new heights. One hand twists in his hair and the other claws into his buttocks, causing him to buck. Tilting her hips, she nearly sobs in relief when the head of his cock nudges her entrance. "Yes..."

"There's so much I want to do to you. With you." His hot breath fans across her chest. He rolls a nipple between his thumb and index finger. The motion winds the tension in her belly tighter until she can hardly breathe. "I hardly know where to start."

Figures that Lucifer's as talkative in bed as he is out of it. It makes a compelling case for Chloe to never stop kissing him. She moves her hand from his butt, caressing down one side until she reaches his groin. "You talk too damn much," she declares, grips him, and pumps his silky hardness twice for emphasis.

He jerks, eyes half-lidded and mouth agape. She strokes him lazily, wondering if she can undo him like this. For several moments, he's as lost in the sensation as she is giving it to him. But he rallies admirably, leering at her with a sharp smile. "There are other things I can do with my mouth if you'd prefer." His voice rumbles low and husky, full of dark promises and honey.

The image of Lucifer's dark head buried between her thighs has Chloe panting and growing wetter. Her inner muscles clench, desperate to grip something: be it his tongue or his cock. "Later."

The word gives him pause. For a moment, she fears she's said the wrong thing again. Lucifer is a wasteland of emotional landmines even when they're not metaphorically and physically baring their underbellies to one another. He stares without blinking until her own eyes water reflexively. Whatever answer he was looking for, he must have found it. Joy and wonder light his face, chasing away all traces of his previous playfulness and bravado.

"Later," he repeats, breathlessly pressing an unbearably gentle kiss to her lips.

Later is but one word, but it's also a promise and a vow. Her heart aches and yearns for it. It's another thousand kisses, nights tangled in each other's arms, criminals apprehended, dates, and reassuring touches exchanged at crime scenes. She knows that doubt still lurks, dogging Lucifer as his own personal demons. But for now, later is the beacon keeping that dark specter at bay.

Their frenzied lust burns away, smoldering into a languid appreciation of each other's body. She wants him no less, still bone rattling and soul deep. His touch is a paradoxical mix of tentative, needy, and demanding. He worships her every scar, stretch mark, and imperfection with his mouth and fingers. His body bears no physical scars, not on his back or on his abdomen where Malcolm gunned him down. But she showers them with the same love and attention in return.

By the time he slides into her, stretching her wider and reaching deeper than she's ever experienced, she blinks back tears. Holding himself over her, his eyes similarly glisten. The enormity of this moment and their connection washes over her as a revelation. She writhes, simultaneously overwhelmed and greedy for more. She sinks her hands into the soft clay of his back, marking the unblemished skin that once bore his scars. They press together, eliminating any space until they could melt into one. There will never be room for even God Himself between them.

-x-x-x-

Lucifer's "tremendous stamina" is everything advertised and then some. She would accuse him of not being human, except it's the literal truth, and that takes all the bite out. After finishing what turns out to be round one in bed, they stumble into his massive shower with the initial goal of cleaning up. It ends with her boneless against the tile wall, slowly being fucked to her fourth orgasm. Numbers two and three came courtesy of his talented mouth and fingers. Now his arms are the only thing holding her upright and keeping her from face-planting on the floor.

He watches her, enraptured by her bliss as water runs down his face. Were she less fucked out of her mind, she would revel in the absolute power of his hungry gaze. She sobs as he fills her on another inward thrust. This angle is a hundred times more intense, his bruising grip on her hips sure to leave marks and gravity lending a helping hand. Every time he bottoms out, he swivels against her clit and pleasure spikes down her spine. Her moans echo off the walls, deep, cavernous, and ringing over the patter of water hitting the shower floor.

"Lucifer, I can't," she cries. It's too soon after her last, but it's obvious he's chasing another on her behalf.

"You can." He sweeps away the wet tresses plastered to her cheeks. "My brave Detective, you can do anything. Let me feel you come undone, love. Give me your ecstasy."

His words, his absolute belief in her and his use of her title as an endearment, sends her hurtling over the edge she didn't know she was hanging over. Her vision whites out, and her mouth falls open around a soundless scream.

"That's it, Chloe. You're a bloody marvel."

His praise sounds miles away. His movements grow erratic, short and savage thrusts as he chases his own high. Her every nerve ending sings with pleasure. Her body is a live wire. She is a vessel into which he pours all devotion he dare not voice. She receives him all, prayers and damnation alike.

He comes with a throaty gasp and his head cradled against her shoulder.

The water finally runs cold down the length of their bodies. Chloe is mildly impressed by the penthouse's hot water heater. Her apartment shower would have gone cold ages ago, so she doubts they'd go for a repeat performance at her place. She laughs off the thought. Everything about Lucifer Morningstar is ridiculous and unreal. Shower sex is never practical or earth-shattering, except with him because he bends the laws of physics.

"No more. I won't be able to walk for a week," she complains after he lets her down.

"Just a week?" he presses a hand to his chest and gasps in mock horror. "I'll need to work much harder next time."

She shudders, resenting how her body tingles at the prospect but eagerly anticipates it all the same. "You may not be human, but I am. Now be a good devil and behave." She softens the verbal blow with a deep kiss that draws a satisfied, subsonic hum from him. Endorphins are one hell of a drug, even for the Devil.

Her knees wobble when they leave the shower. He wraps her in a fluffy, over-sized towel and dries her with gentle hands. When he's finished, she grabs a second towel and returns the favor. It gives her a chance to study his body without distraction, though his cock makes a valiant effort to rise once more to attention. Her examination proves her right: the gorgeous canvas of his skin is absent of scarring. His other skin though, the one he deems a punishment to himself and others, is a different story. She almost asks him to show her like with his wings. But one look at his face tells her that will be one step too far for the current them.

Chloe can wait. Forfeit the battle for a shot at winning the war.

Instead, she focuses on the livid, red lines her nails raked down his upper arms and the crescent-shaped welts peppered across his shoulder. He half-turns to face the bathroom mirror full-on, tilting his head to one side as he takes in his reflection. She sidles against his side, flashing the handprint bruising spanning her hips where she usually wears her police badge.

He slides a hand down her back and purrs, "I quite enjoy this paired look. Care to try matching outfits next?"

"You're impossible." She rolls her eyes.

He bends over to nuzzle her neck and nip at her skin. She grips his neck in return to steady her legs. "Oh no, that honor goes to you alone, Detective. No mortal has ever marked me quite like you. Feel free to continue. I will gladly wear them as badges of pride."

She scratches lightly at the back of his neck, while something fierce and possessive rears inside her. The idea of him strutting around with love bites she made peeking out of his unbuttoned collar has her salivating. She shakes the urge off but judging by the twinkle in his eyes; he reads her all too well. She pulls away, similarly disappointed by the loss of warmth he easily bemoans.

Tossing her damp hair back, she retrieves yesterday's outfit from where she discarded it last night. Her blouse is wrinkled, but given the choice between it and going naked... Lucifer will like the latter option too much. He trails after her as she reenters the bedroom and scoops her underwear off the floor.

Half-dressed, she raises an eyebrow at his nude body. "Aren't you getting dressed?"

"And cover up perfection?" He grins lecherously, but the subtle tightness around his eyes belies his levity.

Sex may not be Lucifer's mother tongue, but he revels in his fluency in it. His proficiency in its physical dialect, of lust-ridden caresses and mind-blowing orgasms, is second to none. A drawer full of witness statements can attest to that fact. Hell, throw her own deliciously aching body on top of the evidence pile. But physical intimacy has never been the problem, the gaps in his vocabulary reside in the emotional realm: warm and content afterglows, giggling confessions, and sneaking away to prepare breakfast while your partner dozes off.

Tiptoeing, she leans in as if to kiss him. Then with his guard lowered, she licks the tip of his nose instead, earning her a bewildered look. She dances out of his reach, cackling as she buttons her jeans.

"I don't understand," he says. The anxiety remains, but it's overshadowed by his confusion.

She taps a finger against her chin and smiles sweetly. "I saw eggs in your fridge yesterday. I'll make scrambled eggs. Do you have any bread?"

"There's sourdough in the pantry. Wait, you're cooking?"

"Hey, I can cook just fine, thank you very much. I do have a nine-year-old to feed at home. I'll make breakfast and we'll figure out what to do for the rest of the day." Despite her trepidation, she waltzes out of the room with her head held high. He'll follow soon. She has to have faith he will.


	6. In the morning when I wake and the sun i

Chapter 6/7  
_In the morning when I wake and the sun is coming through, oh, you fill my lungs with sweetness_

By the time he enters the kitchen, she has barely started on the eggs after failing to find a coffee maker. She expected at least one of those stupidly complicated espresso machines, but no such luck. There's no instant coffee or grounds in his cabinets either. Just a bag of whole beans from Intelligentsia of all places.

"Don't you have a coffee machine?" she grumbles. A decaffeinated Chloe is often an unhappy one.

"That's what the French press is for, love." He scoots around her and bends over to rummage through a lower cabinet. His silk robe pulls tight over his butt, and she knows he's naked underneath. He resurfaces with the said French press, a coffee bean grinder, and a hot water kettle that looked like something her grandma would own.

She wrinkles her nose. All that looks so fussy, but as long as she gets her caffeine, she won't complain. "Snob."

"Philistine," he counters without missing a beat, tweaking her nose before maneuvering past her to reach the sink.

She rubs her nose and wonders if this is revenge for earlier.

He fills the kettle and sets it to boil next to her skillet of eggs. Then he lays out the rest of the equipment on the work counter next to the stove and retrieves the Intelligentsia beans. By the time he begins grinding the beans, Chloe has moved onto frying the bounty of thick-sliced bacon she'd discovered in his fridge. Soon the scent of sizzling bacon and freshly ground coffee fills the kitchen, warming her with its combined novelty and familiarity. Leaning against his side, she presses her cheek against his silken sleeve. His arm muscles flex as he works the manual grinder.

He inspects the grounds carefully, judging the grain by rubbing a pinch between his thumb and index finger. Once he's satisfied, he measures three precise tablespoons into the French press's beaker. The kettle whistles as soon as he stows the remaining grounds in a small glass jar. Does he have the entire process timed in his head? She steps back to give him room, and he empties the boiling water into the French press in a slow, circular pour.

"How long?" she asks after he replaces the lid over the press.

"Four minutes."

She pulls a face.

"I assure you it's worth the wait. Unfortunately, it's not time your bacon has."

The smell of char hits her milliseconds after his warning. Springing away from Lucifer, she scrambles to rescue her delicious protein bounty. The bacon is salvageable, though crispier than she usually preferred. Within the allotted four minutes, she finishes cooking the remaining strips and also toasts an English muffin for each of them. She plates the food, with an extra helping of bacon for herself, and slides them over on the breakfast bar. He shoos her into a seat before presenting the press and two white porcelain cups.

"Well?" She arches an eyebrow and waves a hand for him to proceed. Course he makes the whole affair into a performance.

Preening under her attention, he slowly presses the plunger. She can't deny there's something viscerally satisfying about watching that foamy white line sink to the bottom of the beaker. Steam rises in delicate wisps as he pours the first cup. The aroma has her toes curling. When he pushes it toward her, she gladly accepts it.

"Milk? Sugar?" She wraps her fingers around the warm mug, letting the warmth seep into her.

"After you try it without either first."

She huffs and lifts it, letting the smell tickle her nose. The first sip rolls over her tongue in a burst of flavor: dark, rich, and nutty. "Mmmmm..." she moans.

Okay, fine, it tasted fantastic. She'd gladly trade her in regular Starbucks order to have this every day. After watching him work, she can't deny the artistry of it. Too bad it doesn't fit into her day-to-day life. She can barely wrangle Trixie out the door in time for the school bus without herself being late to work. Drip coffee from a machine is often all she can manage. Best enjoy it while she has the chance.

"Told you, Detective." His hot breath tickles her ear as he rests a searing hand on her thigh. "The pleasurable things in life are always worth the extra time and effort."

Popping one eye open, she takes in his smug visage, shark grin, and the delicious triangle of exposed skin peeking out of his robes. She could rebuke him. Roll her eyes and shove him aside in favor of her bacon. She turns his palm up and laces her fingers through his, running her thumb up and down the side of his hand. "Damn right," she agrees, gracing the corner of his mouth with a quick peck.

His other hand tangles in her hair when she tries to pull back, applying the slightest opposite pressure. She lets him guide her into a full kiss. Sighing, she melts into the sensation rapidly becoming as familiar and as comforting as her favorite throw blanket. Kissing Lucifer will never get old though. Not when her heart sings every time as bright and as shrill as that first time on the beach. He nibbles on her lower lips, and she huffs a low chuckle.

Still connected, she mutters into his mouth. "Breakfast is right there if you're hungry."

Without missing a beat, he licks a deliberate stripe across her palate. "Darling, you're definitely part of a balanced breakfast."

Oh wow, she totally walked into that one. He eagerly swallows her groan and the rest of her tongue for several more moments. When they finally part, he tries to cover his small whine by clearing his throat. She leans her forehead to his, committing the slight flush in his cheeks and the sparkle in his eyes to memory. Without releasing his left hand, she scoops up a forkful of eggs and shovels it into her mouth. She'll be able to eat breakfast without any issue like this. He'll either have to shake her off or deal with it. To her surprise, but she shouldn't be by now, he more than manages with his left hand.

"Are you ambidextrous?"

How had she not noticed before? She wonders if it's a celestial thing. Or maybe it's a Lucifer thing.

"Of course, Detective. I've had eons to practice, and it's dreadfully," he pauses for dramatic effect before waving a single jazz hand. "_Handy_."

She picks up her mug again and drowns her snorts in her coffee. He graciously affords Chloe her dignity, gently squeezing her hand intertwined with his.

-x-x-x-

Slowly and surely, the rest of the world encroaches on their haven. Monday and the start of the work week hurtle toward her at an alarming speed. Her everyday life lies in wait outside the penthouse walls, prowling the entrance beyond his elevator. Its expectations and demands weigh on Chloe's stomach like rocks. After breakfast, they do the dishes by hand while ignoring his shiny, chrome dishwasher. Maybe they're both stalling; all too aware that time moves forward linearly, unrelenting and merciless. He tries to tempt her back into bed. She'd be disappointed if he didn't even make the effort and has half a mind to give in and let him sweep her away at his pace.

"Later," she promises him.

He needs to understand she's not rejecting him or turning him away. Not forever. Sex, no matter how amazing, isn't a substitute for all the other emotional labor required of relationships. And boundaries are important in healthy relationships. Even if he doesn't understand fully. Even if it stings him.

She lures him to his couch for a lazy afternoon of cuddling and channel surfing. Well, given it's the age of internet streaming, catalog-surfing is probably the correct term. Lucifer has all the major subscription services on his TV: Amazon Prime, Netflix, HBO Go, and Hulu. She opens Netflix first and navigates straight to the 'My List' section to snoop on his preferences. _Hot Tub High School_ sits at the top of the list. Oh god, the title card even contains an image of her 19-year-old self.

"Really?" she scowls at him.

"It's a masterpiece, Chloe. Just like you." His smile somehow appears both smarmy and heartfelt.

She exits Netflix immediately and pulls up Hulu. If she lingers even a second longer, he'll suggest watching the movie. Chloe prefers to not take that trip down memory lane. He pouts but settles back into the sofa without complaint.

The "My Stuff" section on his Hulu account is rife with police procedurals and reality TV show. It's the TV equivalent of a junk food diet. Chloe is suitably horrified. "Don't you get enough of police work, you know, at work?"

"It's for research," he replies blithely.

"Then you can help with the paperwork next time."

Feigning ignorance, he yanks the remote out of her hand and hits play on a recent episode of _The Bachelor_. They start at opposite ends of the sofa, but he closes the distance three minutes in when he tries to explain the Gordian knot that was the aforementioned bachelor's drama with the remaining contestants. Unsurprisingly, Chloe has no idea what's going on and quickly loses track of the multiple plot threads. All her entertainment comes from watching Lucifer watch the show, which he does with a jeering, running commentary better suited for spectator sport.

Halfway through the episode, he's sprawled across the length of the sofa with his head nestled in her lap. She doesn't recall how they ended up in this position, but she takes the opportunity to caress his hair. Her legs rumble from the deep sighs of satisfaction he emits every time she curls a lock around her finger. For all his self-proclaimed dislike of cats, he's never been more feline-like than he will ever admit.

"Finally!" he exclaims and throws his arms up, nearly smacking Chloe in the face.

"What?" She'd stopped paying attention long ago.

He points insistently at the flat screen. "It's finally happening."

The video scene is dark, captured at night with occasional spots of lighting dotting a driveway? A man strolls down the path shouting "Colton" again and again over a soaring but ominous orchestral score. Then the shot cuts to another man? The same man? Either way, this man with his back to the camera stands in front of a white-washed fence slightly taller than him. Then with one swift jump and a solid thud, the man boosts himself over the fence and vanishes. Cut back to the previous man calling for Colton, who then declares in the most deadpan tone, "He just jumped the fucking fence."

Okay, Chloe's super lost now. Should she laugh? Be shocked? Scandalized? "He jumped the fence?" she parrots the man in the show.

Meanwhile, the people on-screen "scramble" to locate the missing man in the dark. To Chloe, the efforts appear half-hearted at best. That's reality TV for you.

"Exactly! They've been teasing this moment all bloody season. I'm all for edging given the right circumstances, but this has been torturous." He grabs the back of the sofa, pulls himself up, and flops over to face her. His hair, now curlier than ever because of her ministrations, bounces as he moves.

Without prompting, he launches into an explanation of what happened prior to this apparently pivotal scene. Someone named Cassie turned Colton down, citing how she wanted what was best for Colton.

"He begged her to stay, but she told him he should find someone who was completely in love with him. Why are you humans so funny about this love thing?" he demands, wild-haired and suspiciously bright-eyed. The strained note in his words can't be a product of her imagination.

She cups both his cheeks and curls toward him for a kiss. His lips fall slack against hers, and his breath hitches. The rest of the world and whatever nonsense is happening on the TV falls away. The leather creaks when he shifts his weight. Fabric rustles against more fabric. Silk slithers over her bare arms as he snakes his arms around her waist and maneuvers her into his lap.

His kisses leave her dizzy and breathless. Her entire body tingles from head to toe. She sneaks a hand into his robe, grazing across his nipple. He jumps and almost throws her off. Anchoring her firmly against his chest, he slips both hands under her shirt, fanning his palm across her back. She shivers at the juxtaposition of his blazing touch and the AC chilled air against her skin.

"I admit this is novel," he murmurs between long durations where their mouths are otherwise occupied.

She hums a wordless question.

"Kissing," he clarifies. "I've never been averse to it. It serves its purpose for foreplay. But I've never quite reveled in it either. Not when there are more interesting and pleasurable acts to consider. Yet with you..."

He brushes back the hair that had fallen into her face for a better view. His fingers linger on her temple, smoothing the skin there with loving caresses. Her heart clenches.

"I hear it's the endorphins," she supplies. Then she bites her lip to prevent more stupid and unhelpful quips from slipping out.

His attention latches onto her lower lip again. In response, she sinks her teeth deeper into the flesh. She arches her back, jutting out her clothed breasts as an offering. His nostrils flare like he's caught scent of her growing arousal. His eyes darken. That look on his face does things to her. It turns her insides to jelly and pools between her legs. He looks ready to devour her alive.

"I changed my mind," she blurts out.

He cocks his head in confusion, momentarily distracted from her wanton display.

"Later is now." She grabs the end of his robe's belt, tugging ever so slightly to loosen the knot at a snail's pace. Her gaze never strays from his face.

His eyes widen. "As you wish, Chloe."

As if she weighs nothing at all, he sweeps her up on his arms and carries her to his bed. They don't leave bed for the rest of the afternoon. They make love, achingly slow and sweet at times and hard and biting for the rest. After each round, Chloe dozes to replenish her energy. Her hunger proves as insatiable as his, so lather, rinse, and repeat. But as daylight wanes, their lovemaking—no, he takes on a desperate quality. He grips her ever so tighter, but still mindful of his strength. His groans grow more guttural, hitting like sonic punches. His kisses run sloppy, reluctant to part from her skin for fear he may never taste her again.

He's afraid.

And Chloe has no idea how to reassure him. If he will even listen to her.

Astride Lucifer is probably not the best place for this conversation, but she has his full attention. She's mostly clear-headed even with his cock buried inside her. At least she tells herself.

"You'll come back to work right? I still need my partner." She pauses at the top before her downward thrust. Her thighs burn with the strain of holding back.

His hips jerk involuntarily, drawing a quiet gasp from her. "Darling, this hardly seems the time."

"It's a simple question, Lucifer. I'm stuck with desk duty in the meanwhile, but when I'm back in rotation, I'd like you to be there too." She falls back on him. A jolt of pleasure shoots up her spine.

He holds her still, locking their pelvises and then their gazes together. "You really mean that," he says breathlessly after several heart-wrenching seconds.

Leaning forward, she plants a series of kisses across his mouth and nose. The change in angle has her squirming though. "We're a part of each other's lives. No getting around that now."

"No, I suppose not."

"That's not all." She clenches her inner muscles for emphasis.

"Really?" His eyebrows vanish into his hairline. "There's more?"

"You owe me several dinner dates. At least three non-disastrous ones by my count." Maybe now they can see a dinner together through its conclusion, without interruptions and self-sabotage.

"Only three?"

Giddiness overwhelms her, evicting the last dredge of her ambivalence. "To start with. We'll negotiate the rest once we get around to them." She waits for her proposal to sink in.

"You want to date the Devil." Disbelief colors every choked syllable.

"Damn right."

Pushing on his chest for leverage, she rights herself, rocking gently against him. He throws his head back, baring his elegant neck, and groans. The sound spears her as deep as his cock. His fingers flutter on her thighs, while his hips stutter in time with his staccato breathing. Fuck, he's beautiful like this.

"You would be the first, Chloe. The only one," he gasps and surges into a sitting position. The motion offers a tantalizing glimpse of his abs rippling before her senses are once again overtaken by his searing mouth and all the delicious things he does with it. The strong bands of his arms circle her waist, bringing them chest to chest. The head of his cock bumps her cervix, and she almost screams if not for his tongue in her mouth.

Gathering her remaining working brain cells, she repeats her proposal. "So? Work? Dating?" Then after a beat, she adds cheekily. "Sex?"

His lips slant against hers, and his answer rumbles through their pressed chests like an earthquake. "Always. For as long as you'll have me."


	7. And you take my hands and fill them with

Chapter 7/7  
_And you take my hands and fill them with your brilliant light_

The door creaks as it falls open to reveal her apartment's dim interior. Outside, the sun dips below the horizon. The day's last lights burn out in shades of orange and purple. Her apartment is as quiet as death, growing ever darker as night takes hold. She's been away for less than 48 hours. But without Trixie and Lucifer around, the space may as well belong to a stranger.

As reluctant as she is to leave Lucifer, she can't spend another night. If he has his way, they'd hardly sleep. She needs to do laundry. She needs to pick up around the house before Trixie comes home. Chloe still has work come Monday, and she can't roll into the precinct looking like she'd been fucked six ways to Sunday.

She kicks her shoes off, leaving them in a haphazard pile near the door she shuts with a faint snick. She reaches for the light switch and flicks it on. Squinting against the sudden brightness, she tosses her car and house keys in the tray's direction. The clang of metal and ceramic confirm she's hit her mark.

"You're home." Maze emerges from the kitchen swirling a can of her favorite green tea coconut water like a glass of fine wine.

Chloe jumps, groping for the sidearm she's not carrying. "Maze! You scared me!" she scolds. "What are you doing here?"

"I dropped by to see you and Trixie. Thought you might want more help with your insane arts and craft project, which I noticed wasn't in your room. Did you finally get rid of it?"

"Trixie is at Dan's. She'll be home tomorrow." She deliberately sidesteps Maze's question.

Maze narrows her eyes. "You're acting funny."

Chloe draws her arms up and hugs herself. If she had expected company, she would have showered at Lucifer's. She fixed her hair and clothes as best as she could before she left. Chloe's wearing day-old clothing, and she probably reeks of sex. Maze's gaze sweeps up and down her body, sharp enough to slice apart the fabric and reveal the love bites tattooed into her skin. In an unexpected show of consideration, Lucifer left no marks above her neckline. But that won't fool Maze, who is every bit a sexual creature too.

"You fucked him." Her eyes fall as flat and dead as her tone, absent of the usual glee she uses to rib Chloe about her (lack of) love life.

Chloe squirms. Yes, she slept with Lucifer, but to hear it put in such crass terms... They were both looking for more than an orgasm or three. They wanted to connect with each other.

Maze's limbs swing jerkily as she tears away from the breakfast bar. She slams her drink on the countertop, dropping the crushed can on its side. The beverage spills out and drips over the edge. "Congrats, Decker. Hope you two are happy together," she spits venomously.

The demon shoves past Chloe, nearly throwing her into the adjacent wall.

"Maze, wait, don't leave," she calls. When she reaches for her friend, her fingers grasp only thin air when Maze twists out of reach in a lightning-fast move.

"Why not?" she snarls. "You don't need me now that you have him. He must be over the fucking moon."

The image of Lucifer right before the elevator doors closed springs to mind. He had been unfalteringly gracious about her departure. No whining or pouting. She wouldn't be surprised if a part of him expected to never see her again. Hell and its associated trauma left scars she can't begin to comprehend. It left him unable to accept the good because that must never have lasted long. Watching Maze growl and stalk about like a hunted animal suggests that Lucifer is not alone in that regard. In some ways, Maze has always been more forthright about it by seeking to return to the only norm she's ever known.

"Maze," she says soothingly. "I want you here. Because you're my friend and hopefully my roommate again soon. Trixie adores you for good reason."

Maze throws her a suspicious look, but the severe lines of her shoulders round in response. "You really want me here? Even knowing what I really am?"

Chloe nods eagerly. They might have met through Lucifer, but they didn't become friends because of him. "We're Tribe, remember? And honestly? A lot more things about you make sense knowing you're a demon. It explains why you're so bad at housework."

"No water in Hell to do dishes," Maze supplies helpfully. "Ash's all over the place. No point in trying to keep anything clean."

She squints at Maze, trying to determine how much she's joking versus telling the truth. It's always harder to figure out with Maze compared to Lucifer. For the sake of her tired brain, Chloe files her questions away for another day. "Right, the past few months have been rough for all of us. It may take a while, but I'd like to repair our friendship if possible."

Maze studies her in return, scouring for any hints of deception or weakness. Chloe can't deny it's disconcerting. But like Lucifer, she has no reason to fear Maze for what she is. Then Maze blinks for the first time in a minute, shattering the tension.

"Hos before bros?" she asks in confirmation.

Chloe laughs. "Sure."

Maze offers a fist which Chloe bumps dutifully.

"Look, Decker, I don't care who you sleep with." Maze shifts her weight from one foot to another. "I won't deny he's a good lay. I just don't want to talk about him right now."

"Gotcha, you're still mad at him. Can't blame you for that. God knows he's infuriating even at the best of times."

Chloe won't interfere. This is something Maze and Lucifer will have to work out between them. She hopes neither will try to put her in the middle. Hope is a kindling, and there's more than a snowball's chance in Hell of them reconciling. She can give Maze the support she needs until then.

Maze folds her arms across her chest. "So what now?"

"First, I'm gonna shower," she muttered, fighting the blush rising in her cheeks. But at least Maze flashes a dirty smile in return. "But why don't we hang out afterward? Watch a movie and get some takeout for old time's sake?"

"_Cannibal Holocaust._ Mexican," demands Maze. Her eyes and expression gleam like Trixie anticipating chocolate cake.

The latter request is doable in Chloe's book. But the first... Her stomach churns at the memory of the last time Maze tried to show her that particular movie. She bites her lips and considers agreeing anyway. _Cannibal Holocaust_ is Maze's self-professed favorite. Chloe is a seasoned homicide detective. She can stomach a little fictional gore. Maybe Maze won't mind if she brings the iPad to the couch for some well-timed distractions.

Maze rolls her eyes so hard it's a shock they don't fall out of their sockets. "Fine, you wimp. _From Dusk Til Dawn_ then. You like young George Clooney."

Chloe gives a relieved smile. "Great. You mind calling in the order to Junior's and picking it up while I get cleaned up?"

"Sure, you want your usual mole?" Maze digs her phone out of her tight leather pants.

Chloe nods and heads toward the stairs.

"I'll pick up some tequila while I'm out!" Maze shouts after her.

"I'm not drinking, Maze. I have work in the morning."

"Pshh, who says it's for you, Decker?"

Chloe laughs as she jogs upstairs to the bathroom. She can't wait to shower and to have a girl's night in with Maze, who is a comfy body pillow when the occasion arises.

-x-x-x-

It's past midnight by the time Maze slinks out the door, just as surefooted as she had been before finishing two bottles of tequila by herself. Chloe never got around to doing laundry, but her night was well spent. She does a quick sweep through the living room, collecting the empty tequila bottles and depositing it in the recycling. She stows the remaining leftovers in the fridge next to the Chinese from Friday.

Slowly, she turns off the lights on the first floor and heads to her bedroom. Her closet doors remain open from yesterday morning, clothes shoved to one end so she could wrestle the corkboard out of its former hiding place. She takes several moments to rearrange her closet, smoothing out the wrinkles in her clothes before shutting the doors.

She won't miss the board. It's served its purpose.

Her body operates on autopilot, taking her through the routine of preparing for bed. Change into her pajamas. Brush her hair and teeth. Apply some moisturizer to her face, neck, and arms. Turn down the covers and crawl beneath them. Turn off her bedside lamp.

Through the break in her curtains, moonlight paints a silver strip across the right side of her bed. Her bed has never felt more empty. She fumbles for her cellphone she left to charge on her nightstand. By habit, she navigates to her music app and pulls up Lucifer's voicemail.

Chloe freezes. Why settle for a recording when she can have the real thing now? Still, she hesitates before calling him. This time of the night is early for Lucifer. Is he at home in the penthouse? Has he ventured downstairs to LUX? Swallowing the newly formed lump in her throat, she dials his number before she can second-guess herself further.

It rings twice before he picks up.

"Detective?" he greets breathlessly. "What's wrong?"

His voice soothes her psyche's ragged edges. "Nothing's wrong, Lucifer."

"Then why are you calling?" His confusion will never cease to be adorable even when it saddens her.

"I... I just wanted to talk to you." She almost says "I miss you," but she strives not to sound clingy. They last saw each other mere hours ago.

He has no such qualms. "I miss you too, darling."

She didn't know how much she wanted to hear him say that until it happened. "You home?" She can't hear any thumping beat or voices in the background on his end.

"Indeed, it's a quiet night in for me and a 21-year-old Macallan."

She falls silent, hating the way her heart races. She licks her parched lips before asking, "Whiskey?"

"Scotch," he corrects her. The familiar sound of glass clinking crystal rings over the call.

The invisible hand squeezing her heart releases her. She sinks into her pillow and cradles her phone close. "Sounds expensive."

"You didn't complain last night."

She flushes at his teasing tone. Ugh, she can't take drunk Chloe anywhere. "Shut up."

He hums in response. It's a quiet but pleasant sound that curls at the base of her spine. "I thought this is the hour where all good detectives should be in bed."

She wiggles under the covers and pulls her duvet tighter around her neck. "Where do you think I'm calling from?" she retorts.

"Oh, perhaps you're hoping for some phone sex then. I'd gladly accommodate you. Though I'd prefer video chat if that's the case."

His glee is infectious, and she smiles despite shaking her head at the same time. Then remembering he can't see her, she replies, "No way, Jose, I'm still sore from earlier."

"The best cure for your aches and pains is more orgasms," he wheedles.

He pitches his tone low and husky, the very voice of temptation. Damn if she's not rubbing her thighs together for relief. There's no doubt he can talk her into a mind-blowing orgasm with his sinful voice alone. But what she yearns for is the weight of his gaze, the way his fingers tremble when they caress her jaws, and that hitch in his breath when she kisses him back. It's not only the sex, amazing as it is, but his steady presence and his larger-than-life personality she craves.

"I'd prefer we were together." She stares at the dark ceiling overhead, matte and bland unlike the polished one over his bed.

He gulps over the phone. "As would I." His response is plainly heartfelt, mirroring all her longings. She can imagine the soulful and tender expression he wears, the one reserved for the rarest of moments.

They listen to each other breathe for what seems an eternity. The peace and serenity of this shared moment almost lulls Chloe to slumber. Her phone slips from her limp hand and bumps her collarbone, jarring her back to wakefulness. The timer on-screen shows the call has been going for about 15 minutes.

Shit, she dozed off.

"Lucifer, you still there?"

"Course, darling," he replies immediately.

"You didn't have to stay on."

"It's a moot point now that you're awake again."

She sighs. "I should let you get on with your night."

"If you insist." His affected casualness doesn't fool her.

"I'll see you tomorrow?" she asks. Her stomach churns while waiting for his answer.

"Name the time and place. I'll fly right to your side." He pauses for a beat before finishing, "Literally."

She laughs. He's a dork, and she adores him for it. "Good night, Lucifer."

"Sleep well, Chloe."

She sleeps better than she has in weeks, if not months. Come morning, she lingers in bed refreshed and in no hurry to leave her comfy nest. The mood differs from waking next to Lucifer yet relaxing all the same. But work and the rest of the world demands her attention. Her Folger's coffee from her $30 machine tastes like mildly flavored brown water. What she wouldn't give for another taste of Lucifer's French-pressed brew. Cradling her disappointing beverage to her chest, she fumbles with her phone and pulls up her text conversation with Lucifer.

She composes and deletes several messages ranging from the mundane to borderline racy. In the end, she settles for _Wanna have dinner with me and Trixie?"_

After setting her phone on the counter, she gets dressed. With each layer, she slots herself further and further into her professional demeanor. She gulps and examines her neat appearance in the mirror: a somber gray blazer hanging over a muted blue blouse with her hair pulled into a tight bun. The reflection staring back belongs to Detective Chloe Decker: collected, level-headed, and dedicated.

Except it's only in appearance. Those qualities she usually holds fast to in her work life? They elude her today. Today, she is less Detective and simply Chloe.

With her mind made up, she digs through her nightstand. It takes seconds to locate what she's looking for: her bullet necklace. She'd put it away months ago after Marcus needled her into parting with it. She clenches a fist around the pendant. The metal bites into her palm, a cold sting to contrast to her burning anger.

Breathe in. Breathe out. The anger passes.

She unfurls her fist, choosing to admire her necklace instead. She still can't believe he'd given her such a thoughtful gift. He could have gone for something prettier or more expensive, and she might have turned it down. The repurposed bullet falls between her clavicles. A pop of color and flair to complement her outfit; not unlike his pocket squares. Her reflection brings a smile to her face.

His reply is waiting when she returns downstairs.

_It would be my pleasure. _ 😈

Compared to the weekend that flew by, the workday passes at a snail's pace. She takes lunch with Ella, letting her dominate the conversation with what the forensic scientist did for the weekend. She helps Dan with an active case under the table. He's grateful for the fresh perspective. Several times, Chloe catches herself on the verge of bringing Lucifer up. She can sense Dan's curiosity even as he bites his tongue to keep from asking. Ella would probably be ecstatic to receive any news on Lucifer. But the words shrivel on her tongue. Having taken on a new otherworldly quality, part of her still fears the mere mention of his name might banish him from her mundane world. She'll hoard him to herself for a while longer.

But there's one good thing about working cold cases: no overtime. Banging her head against the wall won't solve these cases any sooner when they're already years old. When the clock strikes five, she waves goodbye to Dan, who is pulling OT, and leaves to pick up Trixie from her karate classes.

"Hi! Mommy!" Trixie screeches as she catapults into the backseat, still clad in her karate gi.

"Hi, monkey, now buckle up."

Through the rearview mirror, she catches her daughter rolling her eyes. God, her baby girl will be a teenager before she knows it. Before leaving the parking lot, she fires another text to Lucifer.

_I'm on my way home now. ETA 40 minutes._

His acknowledgment comes in the form of a single devil emoji: 😈

There's no point asking where he is. There's also a more than significant chance he's already broken into her apartment. The thought fills her with equal measures fondness and exasperation.

For most of the drive, Trixie regales her with tales of the weekend, school, and the new kick she learned today. Chloe lets her daughter talk through her excess energy even though Trixie will probably repeat everything to Lucifer later. Speaking of which...

"Lucifer's joining us for dinner tonight," she says during one of the rare moments when Trixie's run out of things to share.

The seat belt stretches as her daughter slides forward in her seat, sticking her head in the space between the two front seats. "Really?"

She risks a glance at her phone mounted on her dashboard. Lucifer has sent no further messages after his emoji. He'll be there. "Yeah, baby."

"I missed him!" Trixie gushes, before sobering. "You're not fighting with each other anymore?"

"We weren't fighting," she protests.

Her daughter shoots her a skeptical look that reminds Chloe far too much of Maze.

"But things have been..." Strained? Complicated? "Different lately. What I mean to say is you should take it easy on Lucifer. Maybe don't ambush him off the bat?"

Trixie nods sagely. "Don't scare him, got it."

Chloe smothers her laughter, covering it up with a cough.

Trixie jettisons out of the car before Chloe has the engine turned off. Bouncing from one foot to the other, Trixie whines, "Hurry up, Mommy!"

Had Chloe not been eager to see her partner too, she might have slow-walked to tease Trixie. Maintaining a brisk pace, she leads them to their apartment door and promptly unlocks it.

Trixie slingshots through the open doorway, screaming, "We're home!"

Lucifer, who was leaning casually against her breakfast bar, startles and almost drops his phone. Straightening, he tugs his sleeves and greets, "Detective. Spawn."

For several beats, they remain at a standstill. No one moves from their spot. Trixie hangs back with poorly disguised glee but mindful of Chloe's earlier warning. The sight of him in her home again and by the early evening's rays illuminating his face blindsides her. And Lucifer... Lucifer stands stiff as a board, growing increasingly tense when no one moves or speaks. His gaze flickers between her and her daughter with an expectant light that quickly dies.

With a sinking heart, Chloe realizes she's miscalculated. She takes Trixie's bookbag before gently nudging her in Lucifer's direction. "Forget what I said before," Chloe whispers. "Go for it."

With a delighted squeal, Trixie sprints across the room and throws herself at Lucifer's right leg. He yelps, stumbling two steps to the side before steadying himself and then Trixie with a hand on the back of her head.

Winding her arms around his leg like a determined barnacle, Trixie beams. "Hi, Lucifer. I missed you! Where did you go?"

"Nowhere, urchin. I was...busy."

Chloe's eyebrows shoot up. She guesses it's not lying if you're super vague to the point of being meaningless. "What? Moping?" she snarks.

"You're not wrong," he huffs, eyes falling to the child plastered against him. He does a half-aborted shake before sighing and settling against the breakfast bar again.

Crossing the room, Chloe deposits Trixie's bag on the couch and slots herself against his free side. She shares a smile with her daughter. He freezes at the initial contact but thaws as she runs a soothing hand up the length of his arm.

"Hey there." Springing up on her tiptoes, she plants a chaste kiss on his finely stubbled cheek.

At their feet, Trixie gasps loudly. Chloe and probably Lucifer are in for an interrogation later.

He slips the arm she'd been caressing around her waist, pulling her flush against him. "Welcome home, Chloe."

She can't help but recall being tucked under his wings. But it's not his wings, something she's only recently learned about, that make her feel safe. It's him with all his hidden depths, including the complicated pain he wields either as a fine blade to cut down wrongdoers or as a truncheon of unrealized kindness that few foresee coming. It's his unexpected humanity. Slowly, the glass wall between her mundane world and the fantastical one he's offered a glimpse into dissolves. Lucifer's here to stay, and he's a Devil of his word.

_-Fin-  
_Part 2 of _Faith is half the battle  
_Continues in Part 3: _Our lady of (dis)grace_


End file.
